Melville has long been known to be one of the most popular thrift communities in the City of Johannesburg. A vintage store on the main drag is keeping the tradition alive while still providing a decent livelihood for its owners.
IT IS 10:24 on a bright, sunny Wednesday morning. In front of The Moral Kiosk vintage store on 7th Street, Melville, sits a middle-aged man, cross-legged on a light brown Windsor chair. His long dark-skinned legs are covered by a pair of black skinny jeans, with a silver stainless steel chain hanging from the right side. The look is complemented by a black t-shirt with “Iggy Pops” printed in red letters.
OLD FASHIONED: The Moral Kiosk vintage store owned by Josh Georgiou on Melville’s 7th Street.
He occasionally stands up to greet a passer-by with a grin and an energetic demeanour, displaying intense familiarity with some locals. His punk-rock outfit is fashionably matched with a pair of black boots and accessorised with an unbuttoned black flat cap, fashion items which are not foreign to the style on the hangers inside.
His name is Fundiswa ‘Quiet’ Mngquli, a 54-year-old leather designer who makes and trades leather items ranging from jackets, belts, bags, shoes and vintage clothing from the 1960s to the early 1990s. Mngquli is one of two black entrepreneurs who dabble in the trade of vintage clothing within The Moral Kiosk and has been trading clothes for over 30 years, around Johannesburg.
Working at the same store, is a lean young man easily identified by his black grunge boots often accompanied by black baggy track pants and a fanny pack wrapped across his torso. Kevin Donashe is a 38-year-old vintage clothing entrepreneur who sells denim clothes and clothes which specifically show colours and characteristics from the 1970s to the early 1990s. He has been importing and selling clothes for over a decade.
CLASSICAL: Music vinyls and antique furniture for sale at The Moral Kiosk.
In the soaring temperatures beating down the corner of 7th Street, these two self-employed African entrepreneurs overwhelm and captivate potential clients with acute nostalgia through the sale of vintage clothing items from days gone by. The harvest and trade of second-hand clothing from across borders of South Africa and neighbouring locations is at the heart of the work they do. They are two of the few black men to trade authentic second-hand clothing.
Their retro fashion dealings take place in Melville, a Johannesburg suburb whose approximately 3 355 inhabitants are predominately white. The rest are mostly Africans and a smaller number of coloured, and Asian residents.
This hub of retro fashion is one of the few suburbs characterised by restaurants, coffee shops and clothing stores quilted one next to the other down the street as opposed to the typical shopping complex.
The streets of this ‘bohemian village’, especially 7th Street, are never short of crowds of students from nearby universities and convoys of washed-out yellow and vibrant, red metered taxis. The grey road surface peppered with purple flowers falling from the jacaranda trees, are perpetually obstructed by stationary vehicles outside every establishment.
Vintage style goes beyond the threads of the garments within this store. The four walls of The Moral Kiosk, with a hollow centre occupied by three wooden coffee tables, house a plethora of vintage and antique items which make one almost feel as though one has travelled back in time.
Upon going through the glass door with a wooden frame, the vibe of times past is dominated by the serene sound of late 1980s and early 1990s jazz music, luring customers in.
PRISTINE: Fundiswa Mngquli shows off one of his expensive pieces, a British guard’s jacket.
The shabby looking corner store, painted with a desert sandy colour that is noticeably peeling off, is one of many heritage buildings on Melville’s 7th Street. Its gracefully-aged veranda makes no secret of the fact that the building has been standing for nearly 100 years, having been built in the 1920s. The black corrugated iron roofing, along with the three dark green decorative pillars are typical of the Victorian architecture popular at the time.
This store is owned by Josh Georgiou, a prominent music manager who has managed the late world-renowned South African trumpeter, composer, singer and flugelhornist, Hugh Masekela, for over 10 years. Georgiou has also worked with the likes of Blak Jaks, Bye Beneco, Urban Village and Desmond and the Tutus.
In selecting the store, Georgiou wanted to combine a number of elements which are his favourite and create an inviting space for people who fancy “coffee, music and fashion all at the same time,” he says. Most importantly, however, is the decision to allow entrepreneurs of different backgrounds to operate their businesses in a permanent place other than a market which does not guarantee a distinguished place of trade.
VIDEO: Exploring elite thrifting on 7th Street.
“Quiet [Mngquli] is an old friend I’ve known for over 30 years,” says Georgiou. When Mngquli left his previous store in Parkhurst to trade in local markets, Georgiou suggested that Mngquli’s “stuff should be in a permanent space where people can come back”.
At the front of the store is a cluster of hanging leather jackets of bright and dark colours. Next to them are trousers that emit old-fashioned vibes. Just behind the rails are two tall mannequins dressed in British guards’ blazers that are hard to miss because of their bright lipstick red colour.
These are special garments which Mngquli purchased at Camden Town in London approximately 12 years ago. Although the jackets were somewhat costly, going for 150 British pounds at the time, he did not seem to mind. Unique fashion items come first.
“These are serious pieces. I had to buy all four when I saw them, and the thing about them is that they are specific and unique. You don’t find them anywhere else in South Africa,” he exclaims with a smile and wide-open eyes while pointing at the garments in question. According to Mngquli, two of the four blazers were bought by a film company in Hyde Park. He insists that he will not sell the remaining two for anything less than R8 500.
Mngquli’s love of working with clothing began decades ago, in 1984. He fell in love with leather because of the punk-rock/ biker movement. This is an era during which punk-rock was the “in thing” and black South Africans who dared to be different, gliding away from the typical pantsula culture and style found a sub-culture whose fashion was nothing short of bravery, uniqueness and provocative statements.
The father of three came to Johannesburg from the Eastern Cape in the 1980s. He came with his cousin, Mike Nkosi, and together they sought jobs for survival. This was a period in which prospects for employment back home were bleak. In apartheid South Africa, the two black men defied the odds and proudly experimented and fell in love with the biker and punk-rock culture.
The ‘Godfathers of the punk-movement’, as they refer to themselves, learnt how to make leather jackets, belts, shoes and bags for themselves. Those around them loved their look and would urge them to make and sell to them as well. This led to the Mngquli, with the help of his cousin, making these items on a professional scale and availing them to clients.
The majority of Mngquli’s customers were local and foreign white people at markets, especially the Johannesburg Market Theatre. He made shoes called ‘winky-pickys’, chin-high boots with thick rubber soles. He sold them at the only market in the city back then and also travelled to markets in Cape Town and Durban with his cousin.
“People knew who we were and that made it difficult to sell in Apartheid South Africa but we didn’t care because we were fighting apartheid in a different way,” says Nkosi.
Due to popular demand, “…Fundi [Mngquli] and myself learnt how to sew clothing at a young age, not long after we arrived in Johannesburg in the 80s. We even travelled around Europe together to buy clothes and sold them here at home,” he adds.
After years of working and owning stores together, the cousins split in 2002 when Mngquli decided to open a store in Parkhurst called Second Attitude, which he left for markets, and later, The Moral Kiosk. Nkosi owns his own store in Hyde Park where he also sells clothes of a similar style.
Donashe, who was also born in the Eastern Cape, at a small town called Qoboqobo (Keiskammahoek), started gaining interest in fashion from the age of 15 and has always loved “keeping up a good image” he says. The history of fashion, especially that of the 1970s and 1980s, is what sparked his interest in clothes, especially the uniqueness and statement those clothes make in today’s modern era.
The 38-year-old left his hometown and was Johannesburg bound in 2009, six years after both his parents died. He left his younger sister behind with their aunt and came to explore his interest in fashion through the work of collecting, importing and reselling vintage clothing. Despite working as a restaurant waiter and an assistant at a Chinese printing store whose location he has a vague memory of, the father of three started buying and selling clothes at markets as well until he also found his way to The Moral Kiosk in 2018.
VINTAGE: Clothing rails outside The Moral Kiosk.
The image of thrifting has traditionally been that of an old woman who has been defeated by the urges of hoarding and reluctantly donates to nearby stores and charities.
Extreme cases even involve “collecting items ranging from old picture frames, screws, coffee-stained paper as majority old white people do in Uruguay” giggles Donashe’s colleague, Nicola Feinburg, while gently bopping her head side-to-side in response to the calming jazz music in the background. This may or may not be the case with the clothes that land in Donashe’s hands.
The retro clothing fan and part-time writer of religious and nail-biting apocalyptic fiction, gets his clothing supply from a man whom he refuses to identify. The ‘man’ sources a lot of the items from different parts of the world such as South America and Europe.
With a shamelessly persuasive tongue, Donashe does the extraordinary. He negotiates with random people in the street who are dressed in a clothing item that he sees fit to be traded in his business. Rest assured that in most cases he wins.
“I don’t usually buy stuff unless if it’s something really nice or I need it. I can approach you there and then and I give you money if I’m crazy about what you are wearing,” he says as his face lights up. Talking about the complexities of picking out items to thrift, Donashe emphasises that, “It’s a skill. It’s not like going to a second-hand store. The rule is to stay away from stuff that you can’t tell is from the 70s, 80s or 90s.”
A pair of Swedish tourists, Mathias Lindstron and Olov Sandberg, are fascinated by the music inside and stop for coffee. “We heard the music from across the street and had to stop by. We spoke to… [Mngquli]… and he’s so fascinating,” says Sandberg.
SECOND HAND: Kevin Donashe inspects one of his newly acquired clothing items to be sold.
Lindstron, who is also a thrifting enthusiast, says, “The clothes are just so interesting and I don’t mind second-hand clothes, apart from underwear,” he giggles, sipping on his coffee which drips onto his half-buttoned khaki shirt with vintage print.
Despite possible hygienic risks, reusing clothes is imperative for a consumer culture that knows no bounds in terms of fashion and its different eras.
“There is enough clothing. The world doesn’t need to recreate,” he adds.
Although thrifting became noticeable only in recent years, Heidi Svendsen, a trend lecturer in visual merchandise at LISOF fashion design school, says that it is nothing new. “Thrifting and selling vintage clothes was done over the years, including the 80s.”
Like many other professions, daunting possibilities remain a threat to the respective operations of Donashe and Mngquli. The former is perpetually terrified by the possibility of having the identity of his source known. He fears that competitors could source from him and sell at a lower price.
Mngquli complains that from the early 2000s, foreign traders started selling a lot of fake leather jackets and won over a lot of clients who do not know the difference between genuine leather and plastic. He lost some of his regular clients to this predicament as well.
He laments that two metres of leather material in Market Street used to cost R600, and he needs five meters to make a complete leather jacket. “It is frustrating to have to spend so much money and time on making a leather jacket only for customers to go and buy the fake ones from Somalians. That’s why I’d rather import my leather jackets [and not] make them,” he says shrugging his shoulders.
Most of Mgquli’s leatherwear makes him a lot more money during the winter season. “I make about R60 000 to R70 000 a month during the winter because a plain leather belt costs R450, while a studded one costs R800.” The leather cowboy boots cost R2 500 a pair, (from what he says would normally cost R8 000 elsewhere). Leather bags range from R850 to R1 400, and R 600 for a leather hat.
A lot of these do not sell when atmospheric temperatures ascend above average, licking the foreheads and limbs of potential victims of heat stroke. Most South African women do not fancy leather pants and skirts as much as Europeans do. It is during this season that he ends up making about R15 000 monthly, arguably still a decent amount in the trade of ‘decades-old’ clothing.
FEATURED IMAGE: Fundiswa Mngquli shows off one of his expensive pieces, a British guard’s jacket. Photo: Phumi Londell Ramalepe.
ALL LOCAL: African Flavour houses local literature from African Authors Photo: Kayleen Morgan
African Flavour , a new bookstore which recently opened its doors on De Korte Street, Braamfontein, gives students an opportunity to make money. by selling their published books.
The bookstore offers 100% local content with African books written by African authors.
Fortiscue Helepi, who co-owns the shop with his wife Nokuthula, said the only criteria they have for the books and authors that are sold is that they should be a local writer from Africa.
“We are not gatekeepers of stories, only marketers of them,” he said. This allows students who have published books to sell them at African Flavour and make an income from their literature.
Helepi said that the store sells books according to the price recommended by the author or publisher with the store keeping 30% of the sale amount and the author gaining 70%.
Masters student in geography and environmental studies, Mafule Moswane’s books, A Learners Guide to Academic Success and Katrina and Other Untold Stories, are currently on sale at African
Flavour. Moswane said that he “strongly encourages” students who are writers and have a story to tell, to sell their work through African Flavour.
“The store assists African authors who do not have a platform and we need more places which fit the vision to sell African books written by African authors.”
The bookstore greets you with warmth and smooth jazz music playing in the background upon arrival. Helepi said the store is their second establishment with the first one being in Vanderbijlpark. He added that the Braamfontein establishment was opened because they realised that people were travelling from Johannesburg to Vanderbijlpark to buy books.
“The vision for African Flavour is to create a market for more people to read books they can relate to,” he said. Helepi said that it was unfortunate that in our current society people invest more in alcohol than they do in reading.
He added that the challenge for him is to expand so far across the country that “a child should see a bookstore before they see a tavern.”
First-time customer, Amigo Makhubele, who works in Braamfontein said he was happy to see an array of books in African languages, but was especially pleased to find Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom in Xitsonga.
“This is good. I’ll definitely come back to get more books for my collection at home,” he said.
Three migrant tailors play tug-of-war with the unrelenting Chinese clothing industry to assert their own economic dominance on a snoozing avenue they call home.
Daniel “Legend” Osakwe is a Nigerian tailor who has been sewing on Louis Botha Avenue for over fifteen years. He primarily creates outfits which reflect the diversity of the African continent’s culture and traditions. Photo: Ntombi Mkandhla
Seated in his dark shop that bears his name, Daniel “Legend” Osakwe, a tailor anchored on the corner of Louis Botha Avenue and 2nd Street in Johannesburg, let out a defeated sigh. It was 9am and load-shedding had hit, drawing the life from his electric sewing machine.
“Obviously my work flow is now affected,” said Osakwe, pushing the coral silk cloth he was working on to the side of his large metal workspace. It cascaded onto the adjacent table, which held a colourful pool of fabric cuttings swimming together.
Parts of the avenue surrounding him were also in a slump. The steely sound from the nearby motor repair shop, synonymous with the Hillbrow-Sandton corridor, had ground to a halt. Trudging cars honked as if trying to will the dead traffic lights to come alive again.
Although visibly annoyed, Osakwe exuberantly greeted everyone who passed his shop. His liveliness mirrored the energy of his active wear. Osakwe wore grey sweatpants and, over a blue t-shirt, a black gym jacket. His camouflage cap almost covered his eyes, drawing attention to his white-speckled beard which gave away his 44 years of age.
A sleeping avenue smothered by the Sleeping Giant
Louis Botha Avenue sleeps – even when it is powered by Eskom. The economy is in need of a revival, due to plodding construction projects, the changing demographics of the area and the scourge of crime, which has driven many traders to safer, more prosperous areas. For those who choose to stay, such as Osakwe, it is a fight for survival.
A tailor meticulously follows every dart from their machine to ensure a quality result. Theirs is a profession to be handled with precision and care. Photo: Ntombi Mkandhla
“I named myself Daniel Legend back home in Nigeria when I started designing clothes. I loved John Legend’s music, so I also gave myself that name,” he said.
Osakwe moved to South Africa over 18 years ago and opened Daniel Legend in 2004.
In his shop, Europe rubs against Africa through the beaded lace outfits hanging next to the bold Ankara wax-print garments. Ankara is batik-inspired material with Indonesian roots adopted in West African fashion, giving the colourful material a hard, glossy finish which disappears after the first wash.
“The material mostly comes from China,” Osakwe said, with a hint of exasperation.
China’s clothing and textile industry slyly provides tailors with quality material to make outfits, but beats them to the customer line with its own clothing production.
Simon Eppel, a researcher at the Southern African Clothing and Textile Workers’ Union, said about 40% of all imported Chinese clothing is smuggled in, avoiding import duties. This allows retailers to sell the contraband cheaply.
“Compare Chinese export data to that of local customs revenue import data. There is a huge gap,” Eppel said.
In 2017 almost half of all South African imported textiles and clothes came from China and was valued at more than R19 billion, said a report released by Cotton South Africa, a cotton industry organisation.
Osakwe said business plummeted in 2010 when the Chinese clothing industry caught up with Afrocentric fashion trends.
“Before then, only a few South African design houses such as Sun Goddess had commercialised traditional prints,” Osakwe said, adding that he would sew about 15 garments a week.
When he got multiple orders, he would hire help to meet his customers’ desired outfit deadlines.
“Nowadays I sometimes see about five customers. Sometimes no one comes through my doors for a whole week.
“Now I am not just fighting the Chinese market for African designs, I am competing against tailors who have popped up on the avenue as a result of the demand,” Osakwe said.
A thirteen-minute walk down Louis Botha Avenue from Osakwe’s shop sat another tailor, Paul Mphando, carefully hemming a side of a voile curtain. He was tucked up in Adom Clothing, close to 8th Street, a shop with a variety of clothes, many of which were light and semi-transparent, with fraying threads visible on closer inspection.
Mphando spoke with measured precision, his speech squeezed out of his stiff, clean-shaved face. His small eyes, however, opened wide while speaking about his garment making journey.
“My time as a tailor has been number one. My customers come here from all over, including Spruitview and Pretoria,” Mphando, a Malawian migrant, said.
Mphando said he was inspired to seek greener pastures in a foreign country by his now late stepfather, a tailor working in Botswana several years ago.
“Louis Botha Avenue was the first place I arrived in South Africa when I came in 2013,” he said, adding that his brothers who lived on 14th Street pushed him to migrate to Johannesburg.
Mphando said he was in the “right place”, but admitted his location gave him unwanted competition with cheap clothing.
“That dress is R250. I sell my dresses for R600. If a customer walks in, which one are they more likely to buy?” Mphando asked, pointing at a blue dress hanging from the open entrance security door.
A stifling crime blanket covers the Hillbrow to Sandton corridor
While China has a vice grip on the tailors of Louis Botha Avenue, the avenue’s own socio-economic fabric also threatens to suffocate the livelihood of the corridor’s businesses.
Osakwe keeps his wrought-iron gate closed as a precautionary measure against the lawlessness that exists in the area.
“People are afraid to park their cars to come into my shop, so they rather just drive past me every day.
“There are a lot of street boys who mug people of their possessions and spend their time smoking dope,” he said.
Osakwe, an Orange Grove resident, said many street boys live along Louis Botha Avenue, a high-density housing area lined with high-rise apartments.
Osakwe and Mphando are part of the community of African migrants who moved into the area. About 25% of the flat dwellers in the area are migrants, according to a research paper by Wits University spatial analysis and city planning researcher Alexandra Appelbaum.
Appelbaum said this had been an ongoing effect of the decline in the Johannesburg inner city which began in the 1970s. As a result, rental prices became more affordable for African people to move into neighbourhoods along Louis Botha Avenue close to the city centre, such as Orange Grove.
Back at Daniel Legend, Osakwe rocked slightly in a maroon mesh-covered chair while looking out into the street through his barred entrance.
“You know, whenever African people move in, the white people move out,” Osakwe said, marking white cotton fabric with a pencil. He would regularly slot it behind his left ear as he smoothed the material with his hands.
Garment-making on Louis Botha Avenue is an unpredictable business and tailors have to measure their steps to stay ahead in an upside down economy. Photo: Ntombi Mkandhla
Osakwe said he shops around Amalgam’s China Mall and the Johannesburg CBD for fabric for good deals to make sure he gets a third profit off a garment sewn.
When quoting a customer, he includes a return taxi trip to the Johannesburg CBD from Orange Grove, which costs him R22.
“To make a lady’s top, I can buy material and other necessities for about R190, and in the end sell the garment for R300,” Osakwe said.
Mphando, on the other hand, said he makes sure of 50% profit on every garment. He said he buys from cross-border traders who bring back material from other countries.
“I can get it as cheap as R150 for 6m of material,” Mphando said. To maximise even further, he often resells the material he would have bought with a R100 mark-up for himself.
While China exports cheaper fabric, Osakwe said he would never compromise on buying poor quality fabric to lower costs.
“When people see my work, it must show my excellent workmanship,” he said.
Daniel “Legend” Osakwe is a Nigerian tailor who has been working on Louis Botha Avenue for over fifteen years. He speaks on how paying attention to detail allows him to effectively work on an a crime-riddled and sleeping avenue.
Customer service: The personal assistance not even the smartest robot could offer
As Osakwe sat alone in his shop, a petite woman seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She stood outside the entrance, next to a mannequin of similar stature. The life-sized doll was dressed in a Ndebele print-inspired A-line dress sneakily adjusted with a wooden peg at its back to hide the garment’s actual size. The visitor’s body was motionless, eyes moving slightly, as if unsure whether she could window-shop through the wrought iron bars.
Osakwe quickly welcomed her in with a sense of familiarity. Felicia Mlangeni had paid him a visit to potentially get a dress sewn.
What’s up? Osakwe often receives Whatsapp messages of outfits he has been tasked to recreate, like this Pedi-inspired traditional wedding dress. Photo: Ntombi Mkandhla.
“It is for my sister’s umembeso. She is getting married next month,” Mlangeni said, perched over Osakwe’s shoulder as she showed him the dress she had in mind on her phone. “Do you have your own material?” Osakwe asked. Mlangeni took a moment to ponder, as if asked a trick question, before sheepishly shaking her head in response. While giving her a quick look at and feel of the fabric options available to her, Osakwe explained that a cotton and polyester mix dress would cost her R600, while if she opted for a pure cotton outfit he would charge her R850 for the design and material.
What started as an awkward business encounter turned into a friendly chat between Osakwe and Mlangeni, as if they were old friends.
“If you are going to be dancing, wear a low heel. What will you do with your hair?” Osakwe asked as Mlangeni bounced off her tippy toes, as if wearing imaginary stilettos.
Clothing alterations: A way to bite back and feed off the Chinese clothing industry
Next door to the shop Mphando was stationed in sat Misheck Mponda in Heartland Boutique, entertaining friends. He was formally dressed with the top button of his blue shirt open, spreading his collar over the white tape measure hanging from his neck like a loose tie.
An elderly man popped his head through the open glass door and shouted “How much?”
His right index and middle fingers mimicked a pair of scissors snipping through the baggy lower left sleeve of his stiff blue overalls.
“R30,” Mponda responded to the man’s price inquiry about alteration. The man disappeared quickly after he heard the figure.
Unbothered by the man’s abrupt departure, Mponda kept his eyes on the darting needle before him.
“People always shop for the best deal,” the 34-year-old said. Mponda, who had been a Louis Botha Avenue tailor for five years, said he thought he had offered the “old man” a good price for alteration.
“For you,” he said, pausing his work to let his eyes run over my face, “I would say R40”.
Mponda said he had no fixed price for altering or sewing garments and would often form a price by judging a customer’s appearance.
Misheck Mponda, an Orange Grove tailor on Louis Botha Avenue, says a method he uses to attract and retain customers is to be willing to be flexible with his const of service. Photo: Ntombi Mkandhla
“But it is not a problem, they can reduce the price,” he said, adding that he was open to price negotiation, a competitive small business element that allows entrepreneurs to rope in customers by adjusting prices.
Mponda said altering people’s clothing was a “good” source of income for him, as customers came out of boutiques having bought incorrectly sized clothes.
“Chinese clothes are sometimes too big or too small. When people buy clothing from the shop which they can’t fit into, they come to me,” Mponda said, highlighting his satisfaction with working on the avenue.
“I am just a blind man; God will be my eyes,”
Osakwe, a husband and father-of-two, said he sometimes wishes he could leave Louis Botha Avenue completely.
When he set up shop on the avenue he had hoped the transport node would expose him to many potential customers.
“I just don’t have enough resources to move to places like Sandton,” he said, resting both his hands on the work station in front of him.
Osakwe said he had often been at the mercy of his landlord, struggling to meet the R3 000 rent and utility bills for his shop.
A red bible peeked through folded material near his hands, belonging amid his clutter just as much as the spools of thread and pairs of scissors scattered over the table.
“Living as an immigrant in a country so far away, I need to have strong faith and ambition,” he said.
Far back in his shop hung a painting of White Jesus, draped in red cloth, straddling a lamb while his fair bare feet led a flock of sheep through the wilderness.
“I am just a blind man; God will be my eyes,” Osakwe said, his hands briefly held open in surrender as if reaching to heaven to shine its light on him.
FEATURED IMAGE:Garment-making on Louis Botha Avenue is an unpredictable business and tailors have to measure their steps to stay ahead in an upside down economy. Photo: Ntombi Mkandhla
Louis Botha Avenue is a street in transition where small businesses that once thrived are battling to attract customers, but with the prospect of revival there lies hope for the future in a declining economy.
PERCHED on an oil-stained wooden table, a bicycle wheel spins and wheezes. Each spin reflects the light from a headlamp worn by a slender, spectacled man whose hands are blackened from the greasy wrench he wields to loosen and tighten wheel spokes.
“There is no school that will teach you how to fix bikes or learn the industry. I had to learn from grassroots level,” says Vimal Daya, who runs Bhanis, a bicycle shop on Louis Botha Avenue in Orange Grove, Johannesburg.
“It’s been tough, as I had to learn things from scratch, but over the years I have managed to teach myself.”
The dark room is filled with bicycle parts and wheels, making it a minefield for the clumsy. Daya runs Bhanis with his older sister, Jyoti “Judy” Daya. The shop, tucked away on Louis Botha, has been operating since 1982.
“I’ve become good enough at repairing and fixing bicycles. I think I am more mechanically proficient than academically proficient,” says Daya. He laughs in the flickering half-light, the result of a power cut caused by yet another bout of load-shedding. But these are dark times for the once thriving business.
“It has been terribly tough. We are basically just surviving,” says Daya, shrugging as he searches for a tool in the jumble of his shop.
Vimal Daya, runs Bhanis Bicycle shop with his sister Jyoti ‘Judy’ Daya. The 45-year old began working at the shop in 1992. Photo; Lwazi Maseko
A once thriving street which has fallen prey to ‘lawlessness’
Daya has learned along the way on how to repair bicycles, “fixing bicycles isn’tjust about changing tubes and tyres, a bicycle can have a unique problem, which keeps it interesting.” Photo: Lwazi Maseko
Louis Botha was once a bustling street, but it has been battered by a troubled South African economy with problems ranging from high unemployment to crime, poverty and increasing competition from Johannesburg’s many malls.
The origin of the street dates back to 1876, just after the discovery of gold in Johannesburg. It has since become a vital thoroughfare that runs for more than 9km from the edge of Hillbrow to the border of Sandton.
The stretch of Louis Botha in Orange Grove has fallen victim to urban decay, with many businesses now characterised by informal trading, shebeens, churches and cash-for-scrap shops that have car parts spilling onto the pavement.
There is some hope for Louis Botha, though, because of Johannesburg’s “Corridors of Freedom” project, which partly intends to revive its economy.
“The ‘Corridors of Freedom’ are one of the ways in which the City will transform entrenched settlement patterns that have kept many marginalised communities at the outskirts of the City, away from economic opportunities and access to jobs and growth,” according to the South African Jewish Report.
The development plan can revive Louis Botha’s economy “if it is done right”, says Noel Hutton, the director of NPC, a non-profit corporation that works closely with the Louis Botha community.
“Louis Botha is a very narrow road … to get everything envisaged and planned is impossible,” says Hutton, adding: “There will be no place for pedestrians; there are so many issues to do with that particular corridor before you get outside of it.”
Roger Chadwick, NPC senior project manager, says “physical mobility in Louis Botha is nil. It is dangerous to walk in.”
Chadwick, who has lived in the area since 1995, says the lack of security has affected the economy.
“Louis Botha is a river of crime. You can’t divorce economics from the social fabric. There are a lot of forces that are having a negative effect on business. Why would I want to trade on Louis Botha Avenue if there is no law, order and enforcement?”
City of Johannesburg PR councillor Strike Rambani agrees that the underlying problem in Louis Botha is “lawlessness”.
“If the social issues can be improved, then we can improve our economy,” says Rambani, who has lived on Louis Botha for 20 years.
“We are getting upgrades in Orange Grove, but it is going to be a long process,” says Chadwick.
The “Corridors of Freedom” will redevelop an “effective public transport system”, Rea Vaya, which will increase foot traffic as more people travel through Louis Botha and residential developments, “which will stimulate opportunities for small-scale operators.”
But for Vimal Daya the prospect of thriving in today’s economy is a distant dream.
“For the past three years the biggest challenge in the business has been surviving, because of this whole economic crisis our country is going through right now,” says the 45-year old bike enthusiast.
His rent is roughly R15 000 a month: “To meet the rental obligations has been a challenge,” he says, “especially in winter, as it is not a good period for the cycling business.
“Things get tight, you can’t meet some of your payment obligations and we’ve run into trouble, where suppliers have stopped supplying us because we have taken too long to pay them off.”
The business has not been making a profit for the past three years.
Daya employs one person, who helps to repair bicycles.
“It is not viable to employ people because business is so bad, it doesn’t pay me. Each month the expenses tend to increase and we need to have the money to meet those expenses,” says Daya, adding that “things like going on holiday and going to the movies, the extra things you deserve in life, we had to make major cutbacks on.”
But Bhanis is not alone in its struggle to survive and thrive as a small business.
The shop is stocked with new bicycles which can be mistaken for second-hand since the wrappings have peeled and punctured tyres sit in the shop, collecting dust.
“Customers won’t buy new bicycles, but rather fix their old ones, which is more affordable,” Daya says. If a customer wants a bicycle he will show an image of the one he wants and will order it. “My stock size has shrunk,” he says.
“A good bicycle in the 1990s would cost you R800,” says Daya. “Today the same quality bicycle will cost you R2 500, which is a huge jump. Back then things were cheaper and people could afford them,” he says with a fleeting smile.
Marian Laserson, 83, community activist and architect who has lived in the area for most of her life, remembers Orange Grove as a thriving, energetic neighbourhood.
“We had an excellent bus service so people could go do their shopping,” she says. “When crime started to escalate, people started using their cars more and wouldn’t come to Louis Botha because there is no parking. Louis Botha started to die.”
Marian Laserson, says the lack of security on Louis Botha and the many illegal businesses has had a negative impact on the economy. Photo: Lwazi Maseko
The ‘nineteen-ninetines’, when it went downhill
Daya says during the 90s all four major banks were a quick walk away from his shop. When the banks and major stores such as Markham’s and Foschini closed down it had a negative impact on his business.
An old clothing store, which sells iconic brands such as Dickies and Umbro, two brands which were popular in the 90’s and are making a comeback. Photo: Lwazi Maseko
Chadwick also remembers the banks’ pull-out as a big blow to business on the street.
“When Standard Bank moved out we threw our toys out; then FNB followed. We said no, you are killing Louis Botha,” he says.
Despite the declining economy, Bhanis is still well supported by regular customers.
Ilan Guest, a coach at Mandeville Wheelchair Rugby Club, uses Bhanis for fixing punctures, fitting tyres, buying tubes and replacing bearings on wheelchairs.
The service is “good value for money”, says Guest. “He is very cheap; too cheap in my opinion.”
Even with no customers, Daya remains busy fixing bicycles, arranging stock and attending to finances and administration.
He is philosophical about his circumstances, believing it is better to face challenges in life than to abandon all hope and walk away from them.
The business is his only source of income, and walking away will escalate his “personal problems”.
Daya hopes his business will improve, and although he is sceptical, “we remain positive and try to survive”.
The good old days
Next door to Bhanis Bicycle Shop is Yogi’s Den, an old-school clothing store stocked with classic brands such as Dickies, a vintage work-wear brand fashionable in the 90s, and Umbro, an 80s athletics brand which has since made a comeback.
The shop is dark, cramped and piled with pants, sports t-shirts and men’s formal shoes.
Sifting through the morning newspapers, Narendra Daya, balding but athletic-looking, wearing a Levi t-shirt, bracelet and a wooden beaded necklace, is taking a break from the day’s business.
He runs his fingers along each page of a newspaper, occasionally leaning forward to watch the passing foot traffic.
“When it’s dark nobody wants to come in, so all I do is sit and wait,” says Narendra.
The 60-year old is the owner of Yogi’s Den, which was founded by his older brother, Yogi, and has been running on Louis Botha Avenue since 1977 after moving from the centre of Johannesburg.
“If someone, could give me money I would sell this business and buy apartments because everybody needs housing these days, that’s where the business is,” says Narendra Daya, who has lost his passion for selling and running a store. Photo: Lwazi Maseko
Yogi’s Den is overcrowded with unsold clothes.
“Business is not good and all we are trying to do is survive,” says Narendra. “When we first opened, the rent was R200; now it is R10 000. We manage to make the rent, but it is tough. Business was good in the 70s, 80s and 90s, but by mid-2000 it wasn’t so good.”
Narendra remembers the days when customers would stream into the store, especially on weekends. “We couldn’t just sit and talk like this,” he says. “People would be saying give me this, give me that!” He points to the rows of clothing covering the shop.
“I remember back in the day when Yogi’s Den was the place to go to get deals” says Noel Hutton, who was a regular customer in his university days. “I still have some of the clothes I bought from there 120 years ago,” he says with a laugh.
When Hutton lived in Sandringham he would use the bus to go to Louis Botha.
“It was vibrant, there was a lot going on, it was a hangout place. Saturday nights, that’s where you would start your jols.”
Narendra Daya, owner of Yogi’s Den, an old school clothing store which has been operating on Louis Botha in Orange Grove since 1977. Yogi’s Den, which was a thriving store, but has been struggling due to the declining economy, “we are just surviving,” says Daya, who sifts through the morning newspapers waiting for customers.
Revival in a declining economy
Down the street from Bhanis and Yogi’s is a shop with a pink, black and blue store front and a cherry logo.
Inside there is an overpowering smell that brings candy to mind. Welcome to Taboo, a shop that sells sex toys and adult DVDs. Behind the counter is an array of pills, herbal plants and “puffs” – herbs crushed and rolled into joints.
The owner of the shop, a cordial man wearing glasses and a Superdry t-shirt, introduces himself as Mark. He asks that his surname not be used, as some members of his family do not approve of the nature of his business.
“I would not be able to survive solely on the sex stuff,” says Mark, who once worked in the corporate world and “will never work for anybody again”.
Taboo sells “flavoured herbal mixtures” that do not contain THC, the psychoactive ingredient of cannabis, and are therefore legal according to current South African law.
The “puffs”, as Mark explains, come in various flavours such as coconut, cherry and mint. They cost R55 each and the rolled herbal mixture is R20.
Taboo has been operating on Louis Botha since 2012. Mark says the business is doing relatively well, thanks mostly to the pills, puffs and herbal mixtures.
He looks up to greet a customer. The man, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, asks for a cherry-flavoured puff. He is disappointed to learn the flavour is out of stock.
“I brushed my teeth this morning only to get here and find the cherry is not available,” he laughs.
Mark says that being friendly and welcoming is part of his business philosophy. He has found a niche in the market and has made the most of it.
Outside Bhanis, a man walks in with a blue and green child’s bicycle. He leaves it on the floor for repairs and rushes out to his parked car. Daya thanks him and waves him goodbye. As long as there are customers on Louis Botha, as long as there are people to serve them, the street and its businesses will survive.
FEATURED IMAGE: Vimal Daya, runs Bhanis Bicycle shop with his sister Jyoti ‘Judy’ Daya. The 45-year old began working at the shop in 1992. Photo; Lwazi Maseko
The world of journalism is awash with endless possibilities, and after entering it with the aim of ending up in broadcast journalism – a year’s worth of training has unveiled many other interests I never imagined I had.
Looking back to my high school days, I had often watched e-News and fell deeply in love with broadcast journalism after seeing anchor Nikiwe Bikitsha doing a live crossing during the funeral of the late great Nelson Mandela and testing prominent South Africans with tough questions.
As I took in her work on a daily basis, I admired the way she articulated herself, put corrupt officials in the hot seat by asking them tough questions live on air and how she moved effortlessly between television and radio.
Bikitsha certainly inspired me to pursue journalism with the hopes of one day being a senior news anchor on one of the world’s respected news channels. And so, with this in mind, I started my honours in journalism and media studies degree at Wits University in 2018.
After getting admitted to the journalism honours programme, I chose to major in television/videography with the aim of learning how to speak with confidence and poise in front of the camera before I finished my degree.
Little did I know that I would end up learning how to operate a camera, to be the one interviewing people from behind the camera and editing the footage into an entire news or lifestyle package.
I have basically learned how to produce videos that have more than just talking heads, but include sequences, cutaways and whatever else is needed to make a great video even fit for television. This was certainly way more than I had bargained for and I fell in love with the craft more and more as the year progressed.
The scope of experience I gained in the Wits journalism department proved that videography was not the only aspect of the course that became my ‘thing’. Investigating and writing ‘spicy’ stories, as my peers would call them, became one of my favourite things to do as a young journalist.
The excitement that came with hearing the rumours about a certain professor being dismissed from the university for nondisclosure of a relationship with his student was exciting enough, but it didn’t match the thrill of digging deeper,proving the story was actually true, and getting to interview all the people involved.
Beyond those spicy stories though, I also admired feature writing from a distance. After having to work on a feature article for the 2018 in depth project, I learned how difficult it is to find the right words to describe one’s surroundings in the form of showing instead of telling. Although I have not perfected the art of feature writing as yet, I certainly know a thing or two about such articles, all thanks to my mentors.
Now that I am a qualified journalist, I have come to appreciate the multifaceted field of journalism and certainly look forward to using each and every one of my skills to expand my horizons as opposed to only heading to the one thing that brought me to Wits Journalism, broadcast journalism.
In-depth 2018: Melville Transforming lives through theatre is no child’s play By: Onke Ngcuka The National Children’s Theatre is an old establishment shaping the futures of young artists. LITTLE FEET stomp on the wooden floor above me at the National Children’s...
The human consequences of state capture need to be communicated better in order for the discussion about state capture to be more accessible to ordinary people.
This was one of the points raised at a discussion about media coverage of ‘State Capture in South Africa’ that took place at the Global Investigative Journalism Conference on Friday. The session was moderated by senior anchor at eNCA, Cathy Mohlahlana.
Adriaan Basson, editor-in-chief of News24, said that although there was valid criticism about journalists’ failure to communicate the state capture revelations in an accessible manner, they had become increasingly better at presenting dense information in creative ways.
“We [News24] are using more videos. The Daily Sun has also been writing more about the Guptas and state capture,” Basson said. He also commended The President’s Keepers, by investigative journalist and author Jacques Pauw, as a “well-written and colourful book. Something many journalists are afraid to do”.
AmaBhungane Centre for Investigative Journalism’s Susan Comrie, told the conference that, “A huge failing on the part of discussions such as these is that they take place in English. Journalists are also a little too focused on forensic detail and other detail that interests them as journalists.”
However, Thanduxolo Jika of the Sunday Times, cautioned against the notion that the majority of South Africans are not engaging with the content. “As much as South Africans are unemployed, they are not uneducated. They can see what is going on and engage with it.”
The journalists reflected on the uniqueness of the experience of reporting on state capture and the institutions that were necessary to make it a reality.
Comrie said that it was “a systematic form of corruption where a number of groupings work to extract value from the state”.
“The turning point was the firing of [former finance minister] Nhlanhla Nene. We started getting to know the Guptas and the people they were close to. They actually need Treasury to achieve this. I think it was the recklessness of President Zuma that helped us to connect the dots,” said Jika.
Pauw reemphasised this recklessness in reference to the leaked Gupta emails saying that, “They did not try to hide what they were doing.”
Basson concluded that, “State capture is far from one-on-one tenders. It is literally when policy is changed to accommodate it.”
Journalists were encouraged to continue putting these stories out in the public for historical record even when perpetrators are not prosecuted .
In-depth 2016: Joburg CBD Founded in a gold rush during the 1800s, the early days set Johannesburg’s character as busy and constantly on the move. Many came from all over the country, continent and the world to seek their fortunes. Some prospered, others did not. By...
It may look cool, but graffiti is costing Wits University tens of thousands of rands every year.
The removal of graffiti cost the university R88 000 in 2011, up from R38 000 the previous year.
According to Grounds Manager Andries Norval, American films glamorising graffiti have influenced Wits students.
Norval said it is easy to paint over graffiti on a white wall. But with a lot of Wits buildings, the colour is in the plaster, so painting doesn’t work and the patchwork can always be seen.
“You can sandblast if off… using sand that is sprayed under pressure…but if you do it on surfaces like wood and marble, you actually damage the building.”
Visible patchwork where painters have tried to cover unauthorised tags on the walls of the Umthombo Building. Photo: Hazel Meda
“Proper graffiti is a work of art.”
Norval made a distinction betweengraffiti and “the squiggles they call tagging”.
“Proper graffiti is a work of art. If it’s done with the proper permission and in the right places, I’ve got no problem with it.”
He pointed out that Wits has a few designated graffiti zones, such as the pedestrian tunnel between East and West Campus, where students can paint without consequences as long as the material is not offensive to anyone.
Clarifying what is and is not allowed, Norval said: “Definitely not political. Definitely not religious. And definitely not contentious.”
Vuvuzela asked Norval what he would say to taggers who argue that the university is curtailing their freedom of expression by restricting them to designated areas.
He replied: “Ask him: if I paint on his car that is parked in a public space…would he like that? Yes or no? And does he not think this money could be better spent on better teaching facilities or fixing lecture venues or even library books?”
Campus Control officer Aaron Ngcongolo agreed: “It’s not good, because this thing is making the place untidy.”
Sharni Hart, an honours marketing student, said: “It’s a campus and it should be kept neat and clean. You can express yourself in another way. You don’t need to write all over campus.”
Graffiti depicting President Jacob Zuma. The tunnel between East and West Campus is one of the designated graffiti zones at Wits. Photo: Hazel Meda
“A youthful feel”
Several students expressed their appreciation for the graffiti in the designated zones.
As he walked past the colourful murals in the pedestrian tunnel connecting East and West Campus, 1st year economic science student Tarrin Skeepers said: “This is one of my favourite spots at Wits. Period. Because I just love the artwork. I just love the creativity.”
Ngoni Goba, a 1st year LLB student said: “It gives the university a youthful feel.”
Norval could not speak about the situation at other universities in South Africa, except to say that he visited the Soweto Campus of the University of Johannesburg (UJ) and saw no graffiti there. The UJ officials he spoke to told them that they do not have a problem with graffiti.
Societal expectations and experiences can often place pressure on people’s relationships. With Valentine’s Day coming up we have asked individuals questions about their views on certain relationship dynamics especially when it comes to the most anticipated day of the year for some lovers, Valentines Day. Viewers shared their beliefs and Siyanda and Katlego talk about […]
