“So then, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of God’s household.” – Ephesians 2:19
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” screams the congregation after the man of God tells them to curse the demons out to get them.
“No altar having my name, having my picture, created to ruin me shall prosper!”
The exterior of Christ the Solution Ministries International with flags of various African states flying high. Photo: Anathi Madubela
The three-story structure trembles with the shrill sounds of praise, and the creaking of wooden floors is audible as the pastor urges the congregation to stamp on the devil on a serene Sunday morning.
Nestled in industrial Wynberg, just a stone’s throw from the township of Alexandra, the words “Christ the Solution Ministries International”, written in bold blue letters against a white background, can be seen from miles away.
“The way to the church is through that door and up the stairs. It’s a bit dark, but do not be scared: this is the house of the Lord,” said the man in a navy blue uniform with his ‘SECURITY’ cap cocked to one side.
As I entered through the narrow door I saw my reflection to my right, a shock at first, but the mirror commands you to look at yourself, to practise introspection. A gentle pat on my shoulder urged me to continue into the blood-walled foyer and up the stairs. The steep climb to the church on the third floor evoked the imagery of climbing up to Heaven, and a mix of Igbo hymnals and the singing of “Jesus loves me, this I know” filled the narrow stairway.
The second floor houses the Sunday school, which doubles up as a crèche on week days. The third floor, a brightly coloured room with high windows almost the antithesis of the route to the church, is where the service is held.
Migrant Hub
“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in” – Matthew 25:35
“Let us pray together-oo [Asithandaze ndawonye], everyone say your own prayer [wonke umuntu asho umthandazo wakhe]. The battles you are fighting-oo [lezimpi uzilwayo], you will overcome [uzozinqoba].
“Think of today’s scripture [cabanga isifundo sanamuhla]. You are Lazarus [nguwena uLazaru] and you shall rise again [uzovuka futhi],” preached the pastor, who was dressed in a navy three-piece suit with a red tie and brown shoes. The mixture of Nigerian pidgin and Igbo seemed so befitting that the isiZulu translation stood out.
Churches or places of worship have been known to create a home and a sense of community, belonging and family for migrant communities. The mushrooming of migrant churches on Louis Botha Avenue is testament to the cosmopolitan nature of the areas surrounding the road. This video tells a story of a Congolese community who have created a sense of family for themselves through the church.Video by Anathi Madubela
Since the late 1980s there has been a global wave of Nigerian migration, with an estimated 100 000 currently living in South Africa. It is therefore not uncommon to find a Nigerian church at the migrant hub of Johannesburg’s Louis Botha Avenue. The uniqueness of this particular church, however, is that in this migrant hub there exists a church that shows the cosmopolitan nature of the road. The church not only resembles a cauldron of melting, interconnecting and morphing culture, it is also a microcosm of the greater Johannesburg area.
A slight metallic swoosh could be heard in the tightly packed, 100-person place of worship. Now and again I could feel a cool breeze fan my face as the congregant next to me was kneeling and praying intently.
“My father! My God! I exalt you! Please deliver me from my situation,” she murmured, seemingly aware that I was listening.
To my left, a man dressed in a matching green isiagu top and trousers, with the vigour of a lion, had his eyes tightly shut, his hands balled into fists while he walked up and down muttering unintelligible sounds.
At the back were three women whose knees seemed to graciously kiss the carpeted floor, who were praying silently as if to keep the prayer in their circle.
This free display of religion, faith and praise created an air of oneness and understanding and this was of course aided by the occasional “Tell your neighbour that God is good” and “He will work out everything in your favour.”
A programme launched by the National Council of Provinces and Gauteng Provincial Legislature in 2018 looking at the effects of migration on service delivery in Gauteng found that 47% of international migrants settle in the Johannesburg Metropolitan Municipal area.
According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, Nigerians are a population with a high record of migration.
Most migrations in Africa are intra-continental; that is why countries that have stronger economies, such as South Africa and Egypt, have a high number of immigrants.
Church as family
“How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity!” – Psalm 133:1
The cry of a hungry child signalled the length of the four-hour long service. The pastor prayed quickly over the offering basket before closing the service.
After the service the pastor led me to a door on which was written “Pastor’s Office”. I sank into the couch that took up most of the space in the bijou office. Behind the couch was a mountain of bags of rice.
“We donate these to church members who are less fortunate. Congregants contribute what they can and we divide it among those in need,” said Pastor Pascal Nwachukwu.
“As much as this church has heavy Nigerian influence, we do not see ourselves as a Nigerian church; instead we put emphasis on community, especially when someone comes into a new environment without having next of kin. They often find themselves in the church and that becomes their new family. We have some church members who are from and live in Alex but choose to worship with us.
“It was also these members who defended us during the [xenophobic] attacks, in as much as this church was not heavily affected,” said the 45-year-old preacher.
Nthabiseng Mooko a 27-year-old choir member who lives in Alex, said although her father is a pastor of a Catholic church, she still prefers to worship at Christ the Solution Ministries International.
“The vibe here is different,” she said. “We call it club church because it gives us the space to praise the way in which we want to, as the youth. My father’s church is very traditional and I had to be put together, but here I feel more at home than I have ever felt anywhere else.
“The fact that this church is a walk away from my house is a bonus. I really feel at home here. I feel included. I am even learning a bit of Igbo because of the songs,” Nthabiseng said.
Wednesdays are jam-packed, the pews filled with churchgoers waiting to consult the pastor on a first come, first served basis.
RIGHT: Nthabiseng Mooko and Siziphiwe Mbokazi wait to see Prophet Ekene for counselling. Photo: Anathi Madubela
“A family that prays together, stays together”
Wednesdays are jam-packed, the pews filled with churchgoers waiting to consult the pastor on a first come, first served basis.
“I need to hurry back to work, please put me in na,” said a panting churchgoer to the caretaker, Sunday Solomon, who was monitoring who went next in seeing the revered prophet.
“These people annoy me. They take leave for everything else but cannot prioritise seeing a man who will help them with their life. Now they come in here and want to jump in,” said the caretaker.
He is a tall man of a towering structure. He looks almost like a bouncer of the church.
“I joined this church back in 2009 and I have been an active member ever since,” says Sunday.
“See, I had come to one of these counselling sessions and the prophet shared something with me. I had just moved to South Africa and my brother passed away back home, leaving children that I financially had to take care of, and for reasons I wish not to disclose I could not go back home. I was drinking and very depressed. This church saved me. At a time I was feeling at my lowest, Christ the Solution became my support system,” said the 36-year-old.
As we were conversing, sitting on plastic chairs in the crèche and with children singing their ABCs in the background, facing the door so that Sunday could regulate who went next for counselling, a woman with a baby on her back walked in and handed him a R100 note. He excused himself and went into the pastor’s office, then walked out again holding a small 100ml spray bottle with golden liquid inside.
“Do you not have a bigger bottle? This small one runs out quickly,” the woman asked.
In an earlier conversation, Sunday told me that besides being a caretaker he sold perfume imported from Dubai for a living, so I assumed the exchange was for that scented product.
“You can buy your own and bring it here and we bless it for you,” Sunday replied to the woman.
Then I realised it was not perfume they were talking about.
“It is anointing oil. R50 a bottle,” he announced proudly after seeing the puzzled look on my face.
He went on to explain the uses of the oil, while quoting an unfamiliar Bible verse. He said it could be added to bath water for a proper cleansing, sprayed over pillows to ward off bad dreams and sprayed on door and window frames to repel evil spirits.
ABOVE: Sunday Solomon, caretaker of Christ the Solution Ministries, sits in the creche so he can have full view and moniter people going in for counselling with the prophet. Photo: Anathi MadubelaABOVE: Anointing oil bought at the church and blessed by the prophet. Photo: Anathi Madubela
The unwilling prophet
It was finally my turn to meet the much talked-about prophet, Amope Ekene. I was met with an unwelcoming reception. Perhaps the soothsayer sensed something I was not aware of. The muscular man, of short stature, seemed weary and unrelenting, but eased up once the conversation became more about him.
“As a young boy growing up in Nigeria, Lagos, I always knew I had the calling but I did not know what to do with it,” he said. “My father was a builder and my earliest memory was of when I was playing with cement and I built a cross and hung it on a tree. I was about six years old then.
“I moved to South Africa in 2002 and I used to gather the men at the commune I lived in to pray every night. Those are my brothers, and from there my congregation grew and now we are here,” said the 45-year-old, apparently chuffed with himself.
He proceeded to tell me more about the church and its different outreach programmes.
“People are important to us in this church,” he said. “We try to help out in any way we can. The point of moving to this space in 2009 from Berea was to realise all of the goals we have reached.
“Take the crèche as an example: Many of our congregants are unemployed or have informal employment, so need a safe place to ensure the safety of their children. We offer not only a safe but a godly environment that parents can trust. Most of the children you see in that room do not pay fees,” said the prophet.
Religious text stacked on an ottoman at the church. Photo: Anathi Madubela
I could hear the growing agitation outside, as I was taking longer than the average person would during counselling.
“We try to help out people as much as we can in this church. We are a family in Christ. For example, with family counselling: The family I just saw before you walked in are in trouble. The husband was on the streets and the wife is upset and cannot forgive him. She is now even withholding things a wife should give to a husband. I had to advise her not to do this because that will further drive him away, because what a man cannot get at home he finds on the streets,” he said.
“The anointing oil is honestly to build confidence and faith in our congregants. When people have a ritual they tend to be unwavering in their faith. Manifestation works and that is what we believe in,” he concluded.
Meanwhile, the children at the crèche continued to sing their lungs out, with their parents coming in to consult the prophet.
“A for apple, B for banana, C for cat,” could be heard from across the street.
FEATURED IMAGE: The exterior of a church. Photo: Supplied
FNB Wits’ unbeaten run came to an end on Saturday as they were beaten 37-31 by a very physical Roodepoort team at the FNB Wits Stadium.
The home side had a slow start to the game as the visitors managed to score two unconverted tries in the same corner inside the first fifteen minutes.
It appeared as if Wits had gathered momentum as Greg Blom converted a penalty but Wits soon found themselves huddled behind the goal posts again as Roodepoort scored their third try. The opposition kicker had a poor day as he missed his third conversion, taking the score to 15-3.
The home side managed to fight back and score a try through blindside flanker, Thato Mavundla, after a good lineout on the opposition 5 meter line. Blom converted the try to give the home side a glimmer of hope of a comeback.
The Roodepoort side had other ideas and scored a bonus point try just before half time, with the kicker once again failing to convert the try, giving the visitors a 20-10 lead as they went into the break.
The second half started well for the home side as they attacked from the start. Great play between the backline saw Kenneth du Plessis finish a try set up by teammate, Wesley Roberts. Blom converted to close the gap to just three points.
Just like in the first half, the home side conceded points immediately after scoring points of their own. Roodepoort scored their fifth try which was also unconverted. This took the score to 25-17.
The home side didn’t give up, but some poor defence from Wits saw Roodepoort score a soft try. The sixth try for the visitors was eventually converted, extending their lead to 32-17. Shortly after the restart, the visitors scored a seventh try to take their score to 37-17.
Wits didn’t not give up as some people in the crowd said the game was over for the home side.
A second try from Thato Mavundla, and a try from replacement Jason Fraser gave the home side some hope of fighting back, but the spirited effort at the end was not enough as Wits eventually lost the game 37-31.
This was their first loss of the season. Wits has done enough to secure a semi-final spot, but they need to do well in the final two fixtures of the season to try and secure a home semi-final spot.
The next two games are against UJ (11 August) and Boksburg (18 August).
Bronson Lange tackles the Roodeport fullback in their loss on Saturday. Photo: Jan Bornman
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.
Doornfontein’s decaying buildings stand along 27 Angle road, where crumbling infrastructure shapes daily life. Photo: Likho Mbuka
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.
Plastic waste and a cooking drum fire stand outside Linatex. Photo: Likho Mbuka
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.
Skating gives young people a sense of freedom and purpose in a city that often forgets them. Photo: Likho Mbuka
“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.”
Crispyboards’ inner-city skatepark gives skaters like Slayde and Zev a space of freedom and movement. Photo: Likho Mbuka
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.
Crispyboards’ inner-city skatepark gives skaters like Slayde and Zev a space of freedom and movement. Photo: Likho Mbuka
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
Platforms like OnlyFans are reshaping how South Africa’s youth navigate money and survival.
A growing number of the country’s youth are turning to online platforms to earn a living through adult entertainment.
Agencies are cropping up to help OnlyFans creators plan their content, manage their money and taxes.
Entering the industry is not a decision to be taken lightly, and big paydays are few and far between.
Work usually done under the cover of darkness, on dimly lit streets has now found a new avenue online. A ring light, Wi-Fi connection and a whole lot of hustle are the tools of a new generation entering sex work. Behind these profiles are young entrepreneurs navigating risk and profit, while trying to survive in Ramaphosa’s economy.
Naked ambition fuels a new era
Just as other industries have adapted to the digital age, the sex trade has also evolved. One platform has brought it into the mainstream – OnlyFans. Ironically, the app didn’t begin as the adult entertainment mecca it is today. Launched in 2016, founder Timothy Stokely envisioned OnlyFans as a place where audiences could financially support creators like singers, actors, and artists through tips or monthly subscriptions. The app sought to democratise the entertainment industry, cutting out middlemen that took a chunk out of creatives’ earnings. OnlyFans boasted over 30 million users in 2020, and has paid out over $5 billion (R87 billion) to creators to date.
For much of the late 2010s, OnlyFans became the site of an adult entertainment ‘gold rush’, with thousands flocking to claim their share of the spoils. However, like the gold rushes of yesteryear, not everyone who showed up, shovel in hand, would walk away a millionaire. Only a handful of creators struck it big, many of whom had sizeable fanbases before joining the platform. Still, that hasn’t stopped hundreds of young people in South Africa from joining OnlyFans to try their luck or simply make a little extra money to survive.
SA creators turn clicks into cash
Hoes and CEOs, a Cape Town-based OnlyFans talent management agency, was founded by former sex worker Rhiannon Gouws in February 2025. Gouws turned to OnlyFans after three years of “traumatising” sex work that led to her being hospitalised in a mental health facility. “It tore my soul into tiny pieces that I had to pick up and I’m still picking them up to this day, but I am so much better than I was,” she told her nearly 9,000 Tik Tok followers.
“Unfortunately, healing does not pay the rent, so I created an OnlyFans [account],” Gouws said. After working with four different managers, a pattern emerged – they were making more money off her body than she was. “I didn’t start Hoes and CEOs to be a boss. I started Hoes and CEOs because I didn’t want women to be managed by men,” she explained.
Gouws says the company isn’t a money grab or a lifestyle brand. It’s a lifeline for the girls and gays who are in the same position she was in, “broke, hot, and confused, still trying to survive”.
Gouws knows that this isn’t a profession entered into lightly. “Most people who are in the sex work industry don’t want to do that and I believe that with my whole soul,” she said. “They’re doing it because they need to get out of a situation, they need to buy a car, pay off their debt, who knows. They just need to survive; they just want to have food on the table. They want to be financially free.”
Hoes and CEOs is a jack of all trades, helping newbies set up OnlyFans accounts, plan content, and even track their taxes. “We keep you accountable and most importantly, we stop when your goal is met,” Gouws said. “This isn’t a forever thing. You come in, make your money, hit your goal, and then you leave.”
The data shows where South Africa’s creators are based and how their earnings are split with OnlyFans. Graphic: Mbali Khumalo
An emerging hierarchy in the digital brothel
Unlike other online businesses, sex workers can’t simply up their marketing to attract new customers. This industry is built on discretion, and not just because it’s taboo, it’s still criminalised.
Enter digital ‘pimps’. The companies they run are structured like management agencies, offering representation, guaranteed clients, and discreet marketing – all for a cut of the profits, of course.
Founded by Australian OnlyFans star Mike Sanchez (AKA ‘Mike and His Banana’), Vixin Management represents adult entertainers in South Africa. His agency promises big returns, fast. Sanchez declined to be interviewed, but Vixin’s Instagram page alleges that no model in the agency has earned less than R50,000 in their first seven days on OnlyFans.
Vixin’s notable earners include one top creator who purportedly raked in R278,910 between April 22 and April 28, 2025. Another creator took home R142,740 between March 21 and March 27, 2025. Non-disclosure agreements keep the identities of his clients confidential, but the agency’s referral programme targets South African girls aged 18 to 22, with a R10,000 payout per successful referral.
Stats SA reports that in 2023, the average South African household had an annual income of R204,359. For the typical citizen, making six figures in just seven days would be life changing.
Big returns are rare in online sex work
While the dream of earning millions on OnlyFans might be alluring, massive paydays are the exception, not the rule. The average creator takes home roughly R2,600 monthly. That’s before OnlyFans takes its 20% cut. Sex work likely won’t make you rich, but for most, especially students, their motivations are more realistic.
“We do see that students are engaging in the trade, especially first years,” said Yonela Sinqu, National Communications Officer at Sisonke, an organisation advocating for the decriminalisation of sex work. “You do get older students, maybe third years, who would engage in sex work to complete their studies. Then you get the ‘older’ generation who would do this to supplement their incomes,” she continued.
“The people engaged in sex work are rendering a service just like any other. The money that they make goes towards the economy of this country. These are small businesses,” Sinqu said.
Most creators on OnlyFans aren’t raking in six-figure sums. Graphic: Mbali Khumalo
Regardless of the modest returns, digital sex work appears preferable to its physical counterpart, where there’s more physical risks and trauma. While it remains stigmatised, the world’s oldest profession isn’t going anywhere.
“It’s not for everyone,” Gouws said. “If you’re allergic to commitment or self-awareness, stay away. But if you have a money goal, a ring light and unresolved issues, welcome.”
FEATURED IMAGE: South Africans are finding both opportunity and risk in the booming digital sex economy. Image: Jufomicheva/Pexels.
Thirty years after the dawn of democracy, Johannesburg remains a city of profound contradictions.
In 1994, South Africa stood at the threshold of an era that promised equality, freedom and unity under the banner of democracy. The country’s first democratic elections saw the formal dismantling of apartheid – a system of institutionalised racial segregation that had oppressed millions of people for nearly half a century. The world watched in awe as Nelson Mandela cast his vote in South Africa’s first democratic elections, a momentous symbol of the country’s transition from apartheid to democracy.
Johannesburg, a city of gold and dreams, was at the heart of this new South Africa. It was a city meant to reflect the promise of equality, opportunity and freedom for all, including those people who sought refuge in its streets. But 30 years later, Johannesburg tells a more complex story.
Although democracy may have opened its arms to political freedom, it also incubated the rise of anti-immigrant sentiments and left economic divides not only unbridged but, in some cases, exacerbated. As the wealth gap widens, many South Africans are left asking why democracy has not resulted in fair economic distribution. This has led to socioeconomic upheaval and created fertile ground for the anti-immigrant movement in the heart of Johannesburg.
A history of migration
South Africa’s history with migration, both forced and voluntary, predates the advent of democracy. Under colonialism and apartheid, the country’s economy heavily relied on migrant labour from neighbouring countries like Mozambique, Malawi and Lesotho to fuel its mines and agricultural sectors. However, the legal framework of apartheid strictly regulated the movement of black South Africans and foreign workers, maintaining rigid social hierarchies.
With the end of apartheid in 1994, South Africa became a beacon of hope for many people across the continent. Neighbouring countries, having supported the anti-apartheid struggle, anticipated that the new South Africa would lead the charge in promoting pan-African unity and open its borders to fellow Africans seeking better opportunities. Indeed, South Africa has experienced a significant influx of immigrants, particularly from neighbouring countries in southern Africa.
The new government aimed to dismantle the socioeconomic structures that had marginalised most of the population. Economic instability, political turmoil and violence in countries like Zimbabwe, Mozambique and the Democratic Republic of the Congo have driven many of their citizens to seek refuge in South Africa, with Johannesburg being a primary destination.
The post-apartheid government embraced a more open immigration policy, reflecting its commitment to human rights. However, this liberal stance has not been without friction. Jo’burg’s urban environment has seen a rise in competition for jobs, housing and services, often leading to resentment among local communities towards immigrants.
Socioeconomic factors
Johannesburg’s skyline, dotted with high-rise buildings and cranes, suggests a city of unrelenting progress. Yet, beneath this glittering façade lies one of the most unequal cities in the world. The World Bank and various studies indicate that South Africa remains a highly unequal society. A significant portion of the population was denied access to economic possibilities because of apartheid policies and South Africa began the 1990s with already high levels of inequality. The Gini coefficient, a common measure of inequality, places South Africa among the most unequal countries globally, and nowhere is this divide more palpable than in Johannesburg. Wealthy suburbs like Sandton flourish, whereas townships and informal settlements such as Alexandra languish in poverty and neglect.Economic inequality in Johannesburg is not a new phenomenon. Still, the promise of democracy – with political freedom supposed to translate into economic opportunity – has failed many people. Thirty years later, democracy has not led to the mass reduction in inequality that so many people hoped for. South Africa’s high unemployment rate, particularly among the youth, has fuelled frustrations that are often misdirected towards immigrants. Many South Africans perceive immigrants as competitors for scarce resources and jobs. This perception is exacerbated by high levels of poverty and inequality, particularly in informal settlements.
Many immigrants in Johannesburg rely on informal or small-scale businesses to earn a living, facing opportunity and vulnerability in a challenging economic climate. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
As democracy stumbled in delivering economic equality, Johannesburg also became a beacon for migrants across Africa fleeing political instability, war and economic hardship. Zimbabweans, Nigerians, Somalis and Congolese, among others, arrived in the city in search of work and safety. They brought with them their entrepreneurial spirit, opening small businesses in the informal sector and contributing to the city’s vibrant culture.
But for many native South Africans living in poverty, these migrants became convenient scapegoats. As unemployment surged to more than 30% and service-delivery failed, accusations that foreigners were “stealing jobs” or “draining public resources” took root. Anti-immigrant sentiments morphed into violent outbreaks of xenophobia, most notably in 2008 and again in 2015. Johannesburg, the city meant to embody the dreams of a democratic South Africa, became the epicentre of anti-immigrant violence.
Police officers patrolling neighbourhoods known for tensions. South African authorities play a critical role in managing tensions, with police presence aiming to prevent violence and protect communities. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
Perceptions of crime have significantly influenced anti-immigrant sentiment. A series of violent incidents involving immigrants have given rise to the stereotype that foreign nationals are responsible for crime in the city. Although studies indicate that crime is a multifaceted issue not limited to immigrant populations, these perceptions have been manipulated by politicians and media, deepening divisions.
Political rhetoric plays a crucial role in shaping public opinion on immigration. Political parties and leaders have used anti-immigrant rhetoric to galvanise support, portraying immigrants as a burden on social services and a threat to job security. This has led to waves of xenophobic violence, with Johannesburg witnessing several violent outbreaks against immigrant communities. This politicisation has further entrenched negative attitudes, undermining social cohesion.
The rise of movements like Operation Dudula – a vigilante group targeting foreign-owned businesses and calling for the mass deportation of immigrants – reflects how dangerous this scapegoating can become. Such movements frame the immigration issue in narrow, exclusionary terms, reducing it to a zero-sum game in which the presence of foreign nationals is directly correlated with the suffering of South Africans.
Politicians such as minister of sports, arts and culture Gayton McKenzie, the leader of the Patriotic Alliance, and former mayor of Johannesburg Herman Mashaba, who leads ActionSA, are among the politicians who promoted anti-immigrant rhetoric.
McKenzie has called for the enforcement of stricter immigration laws to control the influx of illegal immigrants. He believes that this would help to protect jobs for South Africans, particularly in impoverished communities. In turn, Mashaba emphasises the importance of adhering to the rule of law and has advocated for improved border security and better tracking of immigrants within the country.
Public policy specialist Dr Kagiso “TK” Pooe, says McKenzie and Mashaba have highlighted a problem that is often ignored. The South African government and some liberal-leaning publications have glossed over average South Africans discomfort with illegal migration. “What parties like Action SA, the Patriotic Alliance and the like did was address their long-ignored plea for redress on this matter,” he says.
In response to rising xenophobia, numerous civil society organisations have emerged in Johannesburg, advocating for immigrant rights and fostering dialogue between communities. Initiatives like the African Centre for Migration & Society have sought to document immigrants’ experiences and challenge negative stereotypes. These organisations play a vital role in promoting tolerance and understanding amid the ongoing challenges.
Thandi, who asked that only her first name be used, is a 28-year-old Malawian immigrant who arrived in Johannesburg two years ago, fleeing economic hardship and political instability in her home country. Lacking legal documentation, she found herself in a desperate situation, needing to support her family back home.
After weeks of searching for work, Thandi finally found a job at a local restaurant. However, the experience was far from what she had hoped. Her employer took advantage of her undocumented status, paying her significantly less than other employees and making her work long hours without breaks. “I was afraid to speak up,” Thandi recalls. “I needed the job, but I knew I was being treated unfairly.”
One day, Thandi fell ill and could not report to work. When she returned, her employer informed her that she would not be paid for the days she missed and threatened to report her to immigration authorities if she continued to cause “trouble”. Feeling powerless, she accepted the terms, enduring the harsh conditions for fear of losing her only source of income.
Thandi’s story highlights the vulnerability faced by many undocumented immigrants in Johannesburg. They often endure exploitation, fearing legal repercussions while striving for better lives. “I just wanted a chance to work and support my family,” Thandi says, emphasising the harsh reality of seeking opportunities in a challenging environment.
Democracy, capitalism and the divided city
Immigration to South Africa has been growing, with significant numbers of migrants moving for employment and education. However, there was a decline in migration during the covid-19 pandemic.
Anti-immigrant sentiment in Johannesburg is not only a fringe phenomenon: it has found resonance in political movements and everyday conversation.
One man, who prefers to remain anonymous, speaks honestly about his frustrations. “These foreigners come here and take what’s ours,” he says. “We don’t have enough jobs, houses or food, but they seem to have their own businesses and drive cars. Why should they get what we don’t have? This is our country.”
So, where does the blame lie? Has democracy failed Johannesburg, or has the city’s experiment with capitalism exacerbated the divide? The Human Sciences Research Council’s South African Social Attitudes survey found that only 48% South Africans were happy with democracy. Pooe believes there is a declining satisfaction with liberal democracy.
According to political analyst Dr Thandeka Dlamini, the blame should be shared. “Democracy in South Africa is a political achievement, but without economic transformation, it was never going to be enough,” she says. “The country has followed a neoliberal economic model that prioritises markets and profits, often at the expense of addressing deep-rooted inequalities. Democracy promised the people freedom, but it allowed capitalism to run rampant. The result is a divided society where the elite – both black and white – prosper, while the rest fight over scraps.”
Her words are echoed by migrant advocate and activist Musa Nkosi, who points out the irony in South Africa’s xenophobia. “Johannesburg was built on the backs of migrant labour – first from the rural parts of South Africa, and later from all over Africa,” Nkosi says. “To say that migrants are now the problem is not only false, but deeply hypocritical. The problem is the system that has failed to provide for everyone.”
A fresh wave of xenophobic tension now threatens to tear apart the fragile social fabric of South Africa’s largest city. Recently, in Soweto’s Naledi township, a tragic incident underscored how deeply these divides run. Five children, aged between 6 and 7, lost their lives after allegedly consuming snacks purchased from a local spaza shop. As news spread that the shop was operated by foreign nationals, rage and grief morphed into violence, reigniting simmering anti-immigrant sentiments.
“We’ve been complaining for a long time about the conditions in these shops,” says Zandile Tshabalala, a Naledi resident. “But no one listens. Now, children are dead. These foreign shops come here, sell us expired goods, and no one cares until something like this happens.”
For many people, the presence of foreign-owned spaza shops is symbolic of their broader economic exclusion. Many South Africans feel that migrants have cornered the informal retail market, while locals struggle to find jobs or open their own businesses. The economic frustration, coupled with poor regulation and governance, has turned foreign nationals into easy targets for displaced anger.
Amid the escalating crisis, the South African department of labour has weighed in, taking a balanced stance. The department has expressed concerns over the conditions in which many spaza shops operate, calling for stricter compliance with labour and health regulations. However, it has also emphasised that the violence and destruction of foreign-owned businesses are unlawful and counterproductive.
The tragedy in Naledi is a stark reminder of the fragile state of democracy in Johannesburg. Although the city has politically transformed over the past 30 years, it remains economically divided. Democracy in Johannesburg has undeniably brought political freedom, but it has failed to dismantle the economic disparities that plague its residents. The rise of anti-immigrant sentiments is an unfortunate byproduct of this failure, with migrants often bearing the brunt of frustration in a system that seems rigged against the poor.
FEATURE IMAGE: Immigrants residing in the informal settlement of Hillbrow gathered together. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
In a land foreign to your own, where do you turn? Who do you call? Where do you belong?
HURRYING across the streets to assemble inside various buildings and shop-like structures on Louis Botha Avenue on a Sunday morning are families of African migrants. They are making their way to their respective houses of worship. There is something distinctive about the way they navigate their way on the street; a magnetic pulling that makes the movement routine, effortless, easy and natural. Almost as if they are instinctively being called… home.
Belonging: A woman and her two children linger outside, waiting for their church service to begin. Photo: Sisanda Mbolekwa
The men are in crisply ironed buttoned up shirts and the women are adorned in long, layered dresses that just about sweep the pavement as they sashay by. Behind them are children frantically trying to keep up with the pace of the adults, as fast as their little legs can carry them. With a quick glance to left and right they hurry past speeding Toyota minibuses and overloaded taxis in the road, and with a brisk walk they step onto the pavement.
Just a metre or two from where the pavement meets the two-door entrance are four elderly men in suits. They stand arranged, pamphlets in hand, interacting with the passers-by on Louis Botha. Almost in sync, they monotonously mutter the words “come in my sister”, “join us my brother” to the pedestrians walking past, and their wrinkled faces light up with a “God bless you” as soon as their invitations to join the service are accepted.
Pastor Blessing Oggini of Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries ushers congregants inside the makeshift room he has converted into a church, into what he calls a session of blessing and salvation. Bible in hand, he hands out purple flyers detailing information about the church and its daily services, while casually having conversations with members of the church and hugging them as they enter.
As the congregants make their way to the neatly placed rows of plastic chairs, from two of the four corners of the room come the sounds of a euphoric melody carried by a commanding voice booming from the speakers. As the singer jolts from side to side in sync with the rhythm, microphone in hand, he continues to lead the worship and praise from behind the glass podium stationed in front of the room.
Pastor Oggini (second from left) stands with church elders outside the Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries branch in Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Sisanda MbolekwaAn elderly woman stands outside the New Eternal Covenant Church after the Sunday service has ended.Photo: Sisanda Mbolekwa
Brother Jonathan, as he is fondly referred to, belts out the phrase, “This is the day of joy, the day of joy, that the Lord has made”, and the congregation responds in harmony. As the pastor ascends onto the stage from the front row, Jonathan Jise hands over the microphone to symbolise that the time for song has come to an end and he has prepared the congregation for the sermon.
“My role in the church is an important one, and everyone has a space in the house of the Lord,” says Jise. With a look around the room, he adds that everyone is here because of some reason or other.
“We did not come because we simply love the church. When you face difficulty in a foreign country you have no option but to turn to what feels normal: what you grew up with and were raised on from a young age, and that is the church and faith in God,” he says with glistening eyes and a piercing stare, so as to relay his heartfelt relationship with the institution enclosed by the four walls that make up the room we sit in.
Stretched across approximately 9km of tar, is Louis Botha Avenue – one of the city of Johannesburg’s major streets. Known as an area where immigrants and migrants have settled in, historically the neighbourhood had been populated by people of Italian descent, and as a result had been dubbed “Little Italy”. Now that is but a distant past commemorated only by the remnants of an Italian deli called Super Sconto and an abandoned building that used to be an Italian machinery shop. Looking at the pedestrians on the street and the bodies that have made Orange Grove their home, it is evident that the area continues to be an immigrant hub, however, but now of African descent.
The simplified narration of African migration is ordinarily one that sees desperate and vulnerable refugees fleeing from conflict, war and collapsing economies to try to make a living in a country foreign to their own. This industrial narrative exists and is vividly visual on the street, with the avenue being overpopulated by not so adequately spaced out corner shops, congested fruit and vegetable stores, tailoring services, upholstery businesses and – surprisingly – a high number of Christian religious places of worship. In this street alone, one will come across more than 15 boards of bright and colourful signage advertising church branches and services behind doors that seem abandoned on any odd day during the week, but that definitely comes alive on a Sunday morning.
The decision to open a branch of Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries in Louis Botha was one that was necessary, as Pastor Oginni describes it: “The people of Orange Grove are suffering, living under undesirable circumstances, and are in need of healing. Our ministry is here by virtue of calling, to help the despondent people of God in this area and restore their faith in times of adversity,” says the pastor.
“We opened this specific branch this year, but our church has existed on the African continent and in South Africa for years,” he says.
With the first branch having been opened in Nigeria in 1975 by Dr Daniel Olukoya, their mission statement of “propagating the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ all over the world” is one that is evident through their expansion to regions such as Europe, the United States, Canada, Africa and Asia – boasting visibility on every continent.
Adewumni Eze, a young man in a black leather jacket who walked in through the gates of the church, says he did so seeking deliverance and a spiritual breakthrough. Initially hesitant to open up to a relative stranger like myself, he reveals that he owes his life to the church.
“When I first came to South Africa, things were very hard for me. I was hopeless and helpless. I did not know how to survive all by myself and I was becoming more desperate by the day.”
This feeling was brought about by the fact that even as a master of science graduate he struggled to find employment in this country, subjecting him to survival in poverty stricken circumstances, sleeping on the streets and not knowing where his next meal was going to come from as every door he knocked on asking for employment was shut in his face.
“When I was homeless in Orange Grove, I was at my lowest. The church opened its doors for me, gave me a mattress to sleep on and food to eat. I was scared that I would always be treated like a stranger, because I am a foreigner. I lived in fear. I was then prayed for by the pastor, who gave me hope that by placing my trust in God, He would help me overcome my challenges.”
Through his journey with the church, he developed a relationship and fellowship and now not only lives at the church, but is an active participant and assistant in the mission.
“Nothing can harm me now in the house of the Lord,” Adewumni says as he looks around the room, smiling as he reflects on the impact the church has had on his life.
Pastor Blessing Oginni stands next to his podium, where he delivers a sermon every Sunday at Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries. Photo: Sisanda Mbolekwa
Adewumni’s testimony provides a glimpse into the level of hostility directed at foreign nationals. A competitive city such as Johannesburg exposes migrants to vulnerability, as would any unfamiliar surroundings. Among migrants there is an air of desperation, eagerly seeking opportunities to make the means of survival for one more day. And there is wariness of the potential threat of intolerance and violence that their presence may bring about. It is as almost as though one can capture the change in dynamic simply from watching the transition from the brisk and hurried walk on the pavement to the gentle settling into seats once they are inside the church. There is a sense of feeling comfortable when they collectively come into the presence of fellow believers in the house of God, where there is “space” for them.
There are three observed trends of behaviour in relation to migrants and religion, according to a scholar by the name of Orobator, in a journal titled ‘Refugees and Poverty’ (2005). Firstly there are migrants who have persevered in their faith in the midst of trials and tribulation; secondly there are those who have abandoned their faith; and thirdly there are those who have newly identified God as their only comfort and solace in exile. The latter is the interweaving theme along Louis Botha Avenue and its many churches, clustered not so far from each other.
The flaking paint on the walls that enclose the buildings where the religious gatherings are held sheds a little light on the deterioration of the avenue. Despite the many hubs of worship and upliftment in the churches located on the pavements of Louis Botha, the tale of the once highly revered avenue is now a sad one. What was once conceptualised in 2014 to serve as a game changer in the transport sector as a prominent transit corridor is seen as many to have been affected by urban decay that characterises many other neighbourhoods in the city.
There have been issues that have been sites of contention over the intended nature and current state of the avenue. There are the alleged driving of unroadworthy taxis overflowing with unsuspecting commuters, coupled with the non-completion of the Rea Vaya project, to mention just two. Following recent protest action in April 2019 when the residents of suburbs surrounding Louis Botha ordered the mayor of the city to conduct a clean-up of all the alleged illegal businesses and hijacked buildings, it seems there is yet to appear a consolidated view of migrants, their livelihoods and incorporation into the area.
“When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Lev. 19:33-34).
The Bible says that one day the divisions between citizen and stranger will be erased, when the Promised Land will be assigned for ourselves and the strangers who dwell among us. Some deem the efforts at supposed restoration to be xenophobic-related, as a result of placing the blame for decay on foreign nationals. Some view it as law enforcement. What it fundamentally means is that Louis Botha is yet to get rid of the underlying tension among locals and migrants.
Despite the intricate dynamic between the migrants and the locals, the church remains a place to turn to. Not only for those who have found solace within its doors, but in the community as well. Stacked in the corner of Pastor Oginni’s office is a heap of groceries and non-perishable food items and snacks. He explains that the tinned cans, boxes of milk and rice, among other items, are the church’s monthly collection of donations in the form of food and clothing towards its outreach program – for an orphanage in Orange Grove supported by the church.
“Our mission is to not only help those who come through our doors looking for a breakthrough, but also to share our blessings with the community and people of Orange Grove,” the pastor says. The congregants visibly do not have much, but are committed to sharing the little that they do have. “Both in the spiritual and physical realm, this call to unity in the face of division is what brings the community together,” The pastor says.
Pastor Oggini ascends the podium yet again to convene everyone to kneel for the closing prayer. The booming voice emerges yet again from the speakers to reassure the congregants that “all will be well”. The men pick up their Bibles and stand up tall, while the women hoist their children onto their backs and secure them with a towel.
He raises his arms and the congregants close their eyes to signal the end of the prayer. Everyone in the room shakes hands and exchanges goodbyes as they leave the house of the Lord. As the doors open for their exit, the sound of the hooting taxis rushing by remind them of their return to reality.
The atmosphere is one of hope: hope for survival, hope for restoration. Hope that their lives will take a turn for the better. Hope that their prayers will be heard. Bible in hand, like soldiers, they are armed. Ready to face the hustle and bustle of Louis Botha Avenue.
FEATURED IMAGE: Men of God: Pastor Oggini (second from left) stands with church elders outside the Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries branch in Louis Botha Avenue.
Wits students driving their own cars to campus will be paying more for the privilege – especially those who live beyond the borders of Braamfontein.
Vuvuzela calculated the average yearly cost for students driving to Wits with an e-tag: Witsies driving from Benoni will spend R1308, R707.88 from Centurion, R777.48 from Roodepoort and R154.92 from Johannesburg North. Without the e-tag the prices would be about double.
“Well obviously it requires more money for one to get to varsity and back [home], and in the same sense you have less money to spend so it cuts down on where you can drive. Before, I could go home during lunch but now I have to think twice,” said 2nd year medical student Zain Patel.
But students who rely on public transport will not feel the effects of e-tolling immediately. Taxis and buses are exempt from e-tolling according to the recent budget speech by Pravin Gordhan.
Gordhan had also said the government would subsidise R5.8 billion of Gauteng’s e-toll fees.
“It would be better if petrol was compensated in place of e-tolling”, said Darrel Moodley, 4th year occupational therapy student.
This comes after Tuesday night’s 28c petrol price increase to a record high of R11.05 per litre.
E-tolls were a core issue raised by the Congress of South African Trade Unions (Cosatu) in a mass action protest march in Braamfontein on Wednesday.
Former Wits SRC president Bafana Nhlapo was also marching and said: “I’m here against e-tolling because it’s going to affect the poor man on the street because it’s going to cause a rise in basic commodities such as food, water and milk. As much as taxes exempt the poor it’s still going to affect the working class.”
Thousands of protesters marched along Johannesburg central business district and many wore bright red t-shirts with slogans condemning labour brokering, the other focus of Cosatu’s protest.
The crowd started to sing and dance, chanting Juju my president, at the sight of suspended ANC youth league president Julius Malema. Wits workers also joined the march to participate in the nationwide protest against what Cosatu general secretary Zwelinzima Vavi calls “labour ‘breakers’, not labour brokers”.
A memorandum was handed over outside the Gauteng provincial office where Vavi and Malema addressed the crowds.
“We are here to show solidarity with the workers opposing the e-tolling system and labour brokers. Leadership should listen to the masses,” said Malema.
When Wits met La Réunion on stage, language fell away and music took over. Voices Without Borders brought French precision and African warmth together for one unforgettable night at the Atrium.
Picture of Wits choir warming up for the event. Photo by: Reatlehile Mashamba
The Faculty of Humanities and the Wits Choir welcomed Choeur du Petit Conservatoire de I’Est for a joint concert titled Voices Without Borders on May 08 at the Wits Artiruim.
The performance was set to start at 18:30 with guests arriving an hour earlier, filling the air with excitement and anticipation. From the moment the first note rang, the contrast between both choirs was evident, and that was the essence of the evening: a cultural exchange with no borders.
Led by director Fanny Prie, the French choir set the stage with precision and harmony of classical French repertoire. Based in Saint-Andre, La Reunion, the 45-strong youth ensemble is known back home for their “Bus de Noel” tour across schools and hospitals. Their sound was clean, controlled and disciplined, with pure evidence of what years of training sound like in every phrase they sang.
Yet, the performance didn’t feel cold; it brought warmth to a country far from home. “We are a population and a mix; that’s what our choir represents. It’s difficult because African choirs sing in their languages, but it has been a lesson for us and the exchange helps us exchange the French repertoire.” said Prie. The Artiruim fell silent after the last note, then broke into applause, as language barriers disappeared through music. On the other side, Menzi Gumede and Sasha Xola Dladla-Nkosi shaped the Wits Choir for the evening. It was nerve wracking for them going in not knowing what the audience’s turnout would be, but there was clear excitement from both conductors.
They pushed the choir into rhythm and created a beautiful harmony, listening for how it could blend well with the French choir’s precision. For Dladla-Nkosi, that was the point of the night. “Shared harmony is the ability to do things with people who have not been exposed to the choir setting. Harmony in itself blows people who are not involved in choirs away.” said Dladla-Nkosi.
The electric feeling from both conductors came through in the passionate voices of the choir. The choir blended well mixing raw talent to make beautiful melodies. When the Wits choir missed a note and had to restart, the moment wasn’t met with embarrassment by performers and the audience. It was instead met with a shared understanding that they were striving for perfection.
The idea of “shared harmony” stopped being just an idea and became what was happening in real time. It wasn’t about which choir was better; it was about what happens when two different traditions and age groups meet with the intent to learn from each other and deliver the best performance.
“The cultural exchange is something I’m looking forward to because they are an elderly choir. I’m just really excited to be here. I think music is a universal language and them coming from France and us from South Africa and us coming together for the love of music encapsulate what shared harmony means” said Kea Maphila, an alto singer for Wits choir.
When both choirs came together on stage, it was nothing but beautiful. The precision and energy from both choirs completed the entire evening. In that moment the differences in language, style and training did not matter; what remained was a shared sound that felt bigger than each choir. Reunionese choral music blends French choral discipline with Maloya rhythms, a Créole style from African, Malagasy and Indian heritage on the island’s sugar plantations. South Arican choral music blends Western hymns with indigenous African traditions in the Amakwaya style, becoming an identity and community tool. It showed that music does not need perfect translation to connect people, it needs two groups willing to listen and meet in the middle.
Picture of Wits choir practising while French choir watches them. Photo by: Reatlehile Mashamba
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of Wits choir warming up for the event. Photo by: Reatlehile Mashamba
IN-DEPTH REPORTING PROJECT 2025 Joburg, a world-class African city? Is Johannesburg a world-class African city? That was the provocation given to this year’s cohort for consideration and investigation. Their curiosity led them down varied paths, which revealed...
True world-class status depends not just on infrastructure, but on equitable access and resilience for all residents. Johannesburg’s water crisis exposes this gap, as affluent areas enjoy reliable supply while many townships face frequent outages.
Johannesburg’s reputation as a “world-class African city” is under pressure as residents continue to face severe water shortages and broken infrastructure.
In areas like Alexandra, dry taps, burst pipes, and overflowing sewage reveal deep failures in basic service delivery.
The ongoing water crisis exposes how far the city still is from achieving the standards it claims where access to something as simple as water remains uncertain.
Refuse spills from torn plastic bags, burst pipes and overflow water in Alexandra township Picture: Lindelwa Khanyile
The smell hits first. Rotting refuse spills from torn plastic bags beside a cracked pavement in Alexandra, Johannesburg’s oldest township. Dirty bins overflow under the heat, attracting flies that circle lazily before landing on empty plastic bottles and wilting cabbage leaves. A group of boys sit nearby, passing around a joint and talking loudly.
Men stand on corners, bayashela (courting) whistling softly and calling out to passing girls with easy charm. “Eh, sisi, ungahambi kanjalo, uyangichaza!” (Eh sister when you walk like that, I get smitten) one shouts, and laughter spills across the road. Children chase each other through puddles formed by a burst pipe, their feet slapping against the mud and tar. They play freely, unaware that the water soaking their shoes is both a luxury and a warning.
As we walk deeper into the area, my classmate Nomfundo and I hold hands, not out of affection, but instinct. The atmosphere does not scream free or safe. Every corner feels like it is watching you. The streets buzz with music from taxis, the smell of fried chips and oil thick in the air. After circling the area, we buy a kota from a spaza near the corner: polony, cheese, atchar, and a slice of russian squeezed into white bread. We sit on an upturned crate, eating quietly, just taking it all in. Around us, life continues children play, someone fixes a tire, another washes cars with buckets of stored water.
This is not the Johannesburg of brochures and billboards. This is the other side of the city – the one that exposes how the rhetoric of world-class collapses under the weight of broken pipes, empty taps, and forgotten promises.
A city divided by class
The City of Johannesburg brands itself as a “World-Class African City,” a phrase meant to signal progress, innovation, and global competitiveness. But what does that mean in a city where water, the most basic human right, cannot be guaranteed?
To call Johannesburg world-class suggests it meets the standards of sustainable urban governance, equitable service delivery, and modern infrastructure. Yet, the ongoing water crisis reveals a more complicated truth. In practice, the city’s ambitions are deeply disconnected from the lived realities of millions who call its informal settlements and townships home. The contrast between vision and reality makes Johannesburg not a world-class African city, but a divided one.
“Water is an essential urban service in any context,” says Mike Muller, Adjunct Professor of Water, Governance, and Climate Change at Wits University. He explains that Johannesburg’s regional water schemes particularly the Integrated Vaal River System are technically advanced and, in theory, sufficient.
“If water use is properly managed and infrastructure built when scheduled, water availability should not be a constraint,” he says. The issue, therefore, is not scarcity but management. Muller warns that the municipal governance of water in Johannesburg “shares many of the weaknesses of other unequal, middle-income countries.” In other words: the pipes are world-class, but the politics are not.
When planning fails
According to water and sanitation utility Johannesburg Water, the city’s supply chain depends on a multi-layered system. The Department of Water and Sanitation (DWS) allocates water from the Vaal Dam to bulk water utility company Rand Water, which purifies it before selling it to Johannesburg Water the municipal entity responsible for distribution.
But cracks have long been appearing in this system. A combination of aging infrastructure, delayed projects, and population growth has placed unbearable pressure on supply. Gauteng’s population grew from 12 million in 2010 to over 15 million in 2023, yet the region’s water infrastructure hasn’t kept pace.
The Lesotho Highlands Water Project, designed to increase Johannesburg’s water capacity, has been delayed until 2028 precisely during a period when demand has surged. That delay, as experts warn, has “cost the city its water sovereignty.”
Flowing from the wealth of Sandton into the overcrowded streets of Alexandra, the Jukskei river, [Ed1][LK2] which flows north to the Crocodile River eventually reaching the Hartbeespoort Dam, is a constant carrier of waste, choked with sewage, plastics, and chemical run-off. For years, residents have lived with the stench and the danger, while city officials promise solutions that rarely last. Clean-up drives by community groups like the Alexandra Water Warriors and initiatives such as SUNCAS “Turning Trash into Treasures” project show courage and commitment, but they are temporary fixes in a system built on inequality.
Each time there’s an attempt at cleaning the river, it fills with waste again a reminder that the problem is deeper than pollution, it’s about neglect, broken infrastructure, and the uneven delivery of public services. If Johannesburg is to be a truly world-class African city, its greatness must flow through every street, every tap, and every river not just the ones near its wealthy centres.
The Lesotho Highlands Water Project, designed to increase Johannesburg’s water capacity, has been delayed until 2028 precisely during a period when demand has surged. That delay, as experts warn, has “cost the city its water sovereignty.”
Flowing from the wealth of Sandton into the overcrowded streets of Alexandra, the Jukskei river is no longer a source of life, but a carrier of waste choked with sewage, plastics, and chemical run-off. For years, residents have lived with the stench and the danger, while city officials promise solutions that rarely last. Clean-up drives by community groups like the Alexandra Water Warriors and initiatives such as SUNCAS Turning Trash into Treasures” project show courage and commitment, but they are temporary fixes in a system built on inequality.
Each time the river is cleared, it fills with waste again a reminder that the problem is deeper than pollution, it’s about neglect, broken infrastructure, and the uneven delivery of public services. If Johannesburg is to be a truly world-class African city, its greatness must flow through every street, every tap, and every river not just the ones near its wealthy centres.
A “scarily predictable” boiling point
By September 2025, Johannesburg’s water crisis reached what the Daily Maverick called a “scarily predictable” breaking point. Protests erupted across Alexandra, Soweto, and parts of the West Rand. Tyres burned, and police fired rubber bullets as residents demanded answers and water.
The South African Institute of International Affairs (SAIIA) observed that the crisis reveals the state’s failure to deliver on socio-economic rights enshrined in the Constitution. Chapter 2 of the South African Constitution guarantees that “everyone has the right to have access to sufficient food and water.” Yet, in practice, this right depends on where you live.
The residents’ reality
For small business owners like Fanas Monaise, who runs a car wash in Alexandra, water scarcity is not just an inconvenience, it’s economic ruin. “Yoh, my sister, I started this business last year,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “When there is no water, I cannot wash cars, I can’t earn. Sometimes I lose so much I can’t even buy food, never mind take my girl out.”
Nearby, Thabo Maseko, a frustrated resident, points toward a municipal water truck. “We wait for that thing like it’s a miracle, neh?” he says. “They say we must pay for water, but what are we paying for? In Sandton, they never close the taps[Ed1] . Here, they treat us like we don’t count.”
In recent months, even areas like Sandton and its surrounding suburbs have faced water outages and supply cuts, though never as prolonged or severe as those in Alexandra. Yet the moment the shortages began affecting affluent neighbourhoods, public concern and political urgency suddenly intensified. For many residents in Alex, this contrast is a painful reminder that Johannesburg’s response to crisis still depends on who is suffering, and where.
When a camera appears, veyes follow it closely. “Eish, how much is that camera, sisi?” Thabo shouts, half-joking, half-threatening. Another adds, “Haai, wena, careful these phara’s (thieves) will steal it fast- fast!” The tone is mixed curiosity laced with warning, the street talk of survival. For many in Alex, visibility means vulnerability as their stories are captured, but their suffering ignored.
Governance and the politics of water
According to Sipho Mthembu, former board chair of Johannesburg Water, three key issues plague the system: infrastructure decay, non-revenue water, and illegal connections.
“People don’t want to pay for water,” he admits, “but the city also shuts off water when they can’t pay. It’s a vicious cycle.” The city loses up to 40% of its water to leaks and theft, losses that could otherwise serve entire communities.
A dry tap, Ntokozo (In picture) walks back in disappointment with an empty black bucket Picture: Lindelwa Khanyile
According to Sipho Mthembu, former board chair of Johannesburg Water, three key issues plague the system: infrastructure decay, non-revenue water, and illegal connections.
“People don’t want to pay for water,” he admits, “but the city also shuts off water when they can’t pay. It’s a vicious cycle.” The city loses up to 40% of its water to leaks and theft, losses that could otherwise serve entire communities.
This is not merely a technical problem, it is political. Years of underinvestment, corruption, and bureaucratic mismanagement have hollowed out municipal institutions. Each administration blames the last, but residents continue to suffer. According to Business Tech, the management of Johannesburg’s water crisis has come under scrutiny, particularly about the city’s ability to restore supply promptly. Reports show that earlier promises to resolve outages quickly were not met, and delays in maintenance, partly linked to R4-billion being removed from Joburg Water’s budget, have contributed to the problem
As Prof. Ian Jandrell, Wits Deputy Vice-Chancellor for Systems and Operations, notes, “It’s fair to say we are facing a crisis in terms of water and service delivery in general. Without a doubt, this is a serious situation.”
The crisis, Jandrell argues, reveals a fundamental flaw in Johannesburg’s governance mode, it aspires to be globally competitive before ensuring basic local functionality.
Bridging Academia and Action
Projects like Wits Water (recently relaunched as Wits:H20), led by Professor Craig Sheridan, attempt to address this. “We want to think as a society about the water challenges we face,” he says. “How do we keep water in our pipes? How do we ensure there’s water not just in Joburg but in Gauteng as a whole”.
“South Africa is currently grappling with a substantial skills shortage in the water sector,” says Sheridan. “Years of limited investment in training and capacity development have resulted in too few qualified engineers, hydrologists, water managers, and sanitation specialists. Wits: H₂O seeks not only to advance research but also to rebuild this critical skills base, while training and mentoring the next generation of professionals who will tackle the growing water challenges facing our country and continent.”
Andrew Hope-Jones, CEO of Wits Enterprise, adds: “By connecting Johannesburg Water with the university’s research expertise, we ensure that innovation developed in the lab can be translated into practical solutions.” These collaborations aim to transform research into action to “bring water, dignity, and development to the people of Johannesburg.” Yet, the gap between promise and practice remains wide. While academia theorizes sustainability, residents rely on buckets and tankers.
Johannesburg’s crisis is further compounded by climate variability. Changing rainfall patterns and longer dry spells mean that even advanced systems face strain. But, as Muller insists, if infrastructure is built on time and water use managed properly, climate change alone would not cripple the system.
That Johannesburg still struggles shows a deeper structural inequality. Climate impacts don’t create injustice they expose it. The same storms that fill suburban swimming pools flood township shacks.
The Mirage in the Tap
On paper, the city boasts sophisticated regional water systems and ambitious development plans. Yet, across townships and informal settlements, access to water remains inconsistent and unreliable. This gap raises a critical question: can a city truly be considered world-class when its basic services are not universally secured?
Water flows reliably in affluent areas, yet many residents in disadvantaged neighborhoods face frequent outages and limited access. This disparity demonstrates that true world-class status depends on both infrastructure and equitable, resilient service for all.
Earlier in the day, the water truck had arrived in Alexandra. Residents hurried out with buckets and bottles, calling to one another as they tried to collect what they could before the tank ran dry. For a short while, there is r[PS1] elief and laughter, movement, the sound of water hitting the bucket. But by dusk, the truck was gone, and the taps were still empty. The wait has begun again. In the fading light, Sandton’s skyline glows in the distance a shimmering mirage of wealth and modernity. Yet that glow means nothing to those who sleep beside dry taps and overflowing bins.
FEATURE ARTICLE: Protesters outside Johannesburg Council Chambers, photo by:Lindelwa Khanyile
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