“You should see bab’uSithole’s hands; they are like this,” Mam’Sipho says and pauses from plaiting her customer who is sitting on a red plastic chair in the middle of Kerk street, to emphaise the point by curling her fingers.
Bab’uSithole is the Zulu man who started the street hairdressing business on corner Eloff Street and Kerk Street back in 1993. This is where Mam’Sipho does hair. Bab’uSithole does not do hair anymore, Mam’Sipho says. He is on pension.
“The way I see it, he has arthritis but he mistook it for a stroke. That’s what he said. I spoke to him and I said ‘no this is not stroke; stroke is not like this. If it was a stroke, you wouldn’t be able to control your fingers’. But you know South Africans, they earn grant for disability and all that,” she says with a mock twang and laughs.
The queen of Kerk Street
Mam’Sipho laughs a lot and flashes a dazzling smile every time she speaks. She is big and bubbly with inquisitive, piercing eyes. She is originally from Zimbabwe but came to South Africa in 1990 or ’91 – she is not too sure. She started working on Kerk Street in 1993 and has been here ever since.
“I have six kids. I did it six times,” she says and laughs, again. Mam’Sipho is 47 years’ old. Age has barely touched her face. She has given birth to six children, two (a boy and a girl) of which are still in primary school. The two visit her every day on their home from school. “The other one is standing there,” she says, picking out her daughter, 9, who is squeezing her way through a mash of people crowding Kerk and Von Brandis Street. She has on a blue tunic and a navy jersey.
Her brother, 11, drags his feet slovenly behind her. The boy’s name is Ramsey but the Kerk street hawkers call him Popo. The girl is Fezile. Through the milling crowd of traders and buyers and the cluster of goods a man calls out to Mam’Sipho upon spotting her “two little ones” as she calls them.
“Mamazala!” the man shouts, lumbering towards her chair where she is still tending to her customer. “Yebo mkhwenyana!” she calls back. “Do you see how big your boy Popo is?” the man says in a hoarse voice. “He needs to exercise. He is even bigger than me?” “Ah Mkhenyana, bigger than you?” “He has a big mkhaba. What size does he wear? I’m sure his trousers are tailored now?” the man says, catching his breath.
“Who? Bobo?” Mam’Sipho laughs. “Vele, it is so, I ordered these ones from Indians. You see yourself that he is shaped like an Indian.” Mam’Sipho has a candour about her that seems to attract vendors and customers to her like moths to a lightbulb. This effect has been good for her business.
On average she make about R800.00 a day, although she is quick to say that when days are good she takes home a lot more. With her hairdressing business she has been able to buy a house in Zimbabwe and pay the R5300 monthly rent for her two-bedroom flat on Plein and Joubert street.
THE BEST HAIRDRESSER IN TOWN:Mam’uSipho (blue top) is the block leader of Kerk Street and her chair is always busy with the young women who come from near and far to get their hair styled by her. Photo: Lwandile Fikeni
Taking a stand against the authorities
However, things have not always run so swiftly on Kerk Street. Bab’uShezi can attest to that. He is part of the original trio – Bab’uSithole, Mam’Sipho, and then him – who started the hairdressing business on the narrow street. Like Bab’uSithole, he also hails from KwaZulu-Natal. His bone of contention has to do with the formal vending stalls that were built in 2010 – for the Fifa World Cup – which were intended to formalise their business.
Clouds quickly gather above the city’s blue sky as Bab’uShezi speaks. “These new stalls were built while I was working here,” he says in isiZulu, his face a lump of grief. “Here they took our IDs to create these structures for us but when they were complete they turned on us and installed migrants in our place. “
The City of Johannesburg announced that hairdressers were forbidden from the new flea market, Bab’uShezi says. They even made us cards and then they came back and confiscated them. That’s when they introduced these new people, he says with visible contempt at the hawkers shielded in the shade.
“We don’t know how these people got their stalls – whether they bought them or not,” he continues, shaking his head and working the hooked needle in his hands around the balding spot of his customer, who’s asked for a weave.
“We hear that this might be the case,” he says grumpily. “R10 000 is the price being thrown around. These were our stands and we were kicked out. That’s why we’re here on the side of the street. They wanted to chase us off this area. I’m the one who fought for this place the most.”
On this last score a twitch of angry satisfaction flickers across his face. Bab’Shezi is a very proud man. He is short and wears a greying goatee, his signature spottie (bucket hat) hangs down one side of his head as he speaks. His hands work mechanically, drawing the threaded needle in and out of his customer’s loose coif of damaged hair. Bab’uShezi doesn’t know how old he is but he says he was born in 1964.
“When was it when they wanted to forcibly remove us from here?” he turns round and asks another hairdresser close by.
“It was that time when they were cleaning up the city,” the woman says with a sigh.
“Yes, that time,” he retorts.
CLICK TO VIEW GALLERY: Kerk Street is a crowded strip in the inner city which has been demarcated for hawkers. While the hawkers have been granted permits to operate in this area, the hairdressers are still being chased away from time to time by JMPD. Photo: Lwandile Fikeni
“I can’t remember very well,” the woman says. “This was during the world cup. That time when they didn’t want any hawkers selling on the side of the road.”
They have contempt for us hairdressers, Bab’uShezi says, dialling up his own contempt at the way the city and its Metro police treat him and his colleagues.
“They say we aren’t needed here. Now that we’re inching closer to december…” “They also came here three months ago,” the woman cuts him.
“Yes, three months,” Bab’uShezi adds. “So that’s the kind of life we live here.”
Bab’uShezi says he has collected the names of the elderly hairdressers who work on Kerk Street and took them to a lawyer “who was helping us; his name was Mantanga, and he took our case to the high court.
In the end they ended up sending us back here, in the street, to continue with our work. But they returned us here, and not inside the stalls. We never got the stalls back. They kicked us out!”
When it rains there is nowhere for Bab’uShezi, Mam’Sipho and their swish of hairdressers to find shelter. They hide beneath the covering of JetMart and sometimes, while they’re there, Metro police come and confiscate their equipment.
And that equipment is never returned.
Unleashing Vimba against tsotsi’s downtown
Kerk Street is a cacophony of cars and taxis and cops comingling with the rush of bodies passing through this section of downtown Johannesburg. Against the steel fence of the South Gauteng High Court on Von Brandis Street. just off Kerk, loiters a group of young men – tsotsi’s – who are attracted by the booming hair business here.
“Tsotsi’s don’t attack us,” says Mam’Sipho with an assuring smile. “They will attack a random stranger. Us, we’re more like a police siren. We are the ones that started this vimba thing.”
Vimba means ‘catch him’. It is an infamous yell, a siren that has become synonymous with hawkers downtown. You often hear it when a tsotsi is on the run after snatching an item on sale at one the hawkers’ stalls. The yell alerts hawkers and bystanders alike and has led to many a vigilante mob that delivers raw justice on the pavements of inner city Johannesburg.
“So tsotsi’s,” Mam’Sipho continues, “they know that when they are here and they start to do these wrong things we just say ‘vimba’ and they get caught.”
“When you ask the Metro police what they are doing they tell you that you are not wanted here,” Bab’uShezi says, angrily. “And the irony is that we were here first. The oldest practitioners here are Sipho and I.
All these other people” – he gestures to the sellers in the stalls – “they found us here. Now we live this wretched life where we are harassed constantly by Metro police.
That’s how we end up fighting. It’s not that we’re fighting them [the other hawkers] but we do so in order to come back here and to do our work.”
Different hairstyles for individual needs
Hairdressers on Kerk Street have mulptiplied since Bab’uSithole, Mam’Sipho and Bab’uShezi began all those years ago – and so have styles. Styles depend on what’s in, Mam’Sipho says while weaving an intricate design on one of her old customers’ crown.
“Most people ask for the style that’s the in-style,” she says, eyes fixed on the young woman’s head. “There was a time when there was the razor cut; there was a time when this style came in (she gestures with her eyes to the young woman whose hair she is plaiting), it is called Pontofina. So it depends on what’s in fashion – it’s like clothes. It’s like a label.
That’s how it is with hair. But there are styles that never go out of fashion like amasingili (singles/braids).”
The young woman being plaited by Mam’Sipho’s studious hands is Simphiwe Maseko. She is a student at the University of Johannesburg. She’s been coming to sit in Mam’Sipho’s chair since 2014, since she started going to varsity.
“I was passing here, actually, and I saw her doing hair and I was like, no, this is nice, then I asked her if I could come do my hair with her and then she was like, you can come, it’s fine, then I came.
She did my hair and I was happy. That’s when I started coming more often.
My first hairstyle was a straight back. It was these same braids but straight back,” she says pointing to the style Mam’Sipho is currently weaving on her head.
Maseko hasn’t had her hair done elsewhere ever since that first day in Mam’Sipho’s chair.
“When I wanna do my hair I just come here,” she adds. “Mam’Sipho is good at what she does; that’s all I can say.”
A glimmer of hope for women in the city
The dangerous elements, which are so ubiquitous as to be the very air one breathes in downtown, have not succeeded in deterring both clients and hairdressers.
Zandile Zwane, an inner city resident, moved into Kerk Street in 2006. Before then, she was a student at one of the computer colleges in town.
“I found out that computers are not my thing, but i had a talent for doing hair but I wasn’t that perfect,” she says.
When she used to pass Kerk Street on her way to her computer course she would stop and ask the elderly men who crochet hair with a needle to teach her how to do it.
“I asked how much it was to train me,” she says with cool smile. “They said it’s R100.00 for each style. They mainly use a needle but they were going to teach me all the styles.”
After her brief training she went back home and practised. She already had a certificate in hairdressing but she didn’t know how to plait and crochet hair. After she was confident she could plait and crochet hair she took up a spot next to Mam’Sipho and has been on Kerk Street ever since.
“So, because I had a small child,” Zwane adds, “I thought it better to come here and do hair. I can come here anytime I like. It’s better than being a house wife. I don’t have to wake up early and come here. I’m able to make food for my kids in the morning and then come here, to the street, and then knock off whenever I like and go back to my children. So I saw it was more convenient, plus, I have a talent for it. It’s something I’ve always enjoyed and loved.”
There’s always a silver lining
The clouds above the city turn a dark grey colour and are pregnant with rain. Few moments pass before the first spittle begins to wet the street. The hairdressers usher their clients to the JetMart canopy.
Soon the rain starts pouring vehemently as the population of Kerk Street runs for cover. Mam’Sipho maintains a jubilant smile even as the rain washes down, turning small rivulets slowly into rivers of waste along the gutters of Eloff and Von Brandis Street. Bab’uShezi looks up at the sky as if quietly cursing God for all the inconvenience.
He casts his eyes back to shock of hair before him, and with his hooked needle begins to weave away.
FEATURED IMAGE:CLICK TO VIEW GALLERY: Kerk Street is a crowded strip in the inner city which has been demarcated for hawkers. While the hawkers have been granted permits to operate in this area, the hairdressers are still being chased away from time to time by JMPD. Photo: Lwandile Fikeni
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...
The right to food is enshrined in the South African Constitution, yet millions of people are still food insecure. In Jo’burg, hunger does not manifest evenly– it is a consequence of inequality, the ghost that haunts this metropolis.
Johannesburg has always been a city of extremes. It was never intended to be an equal city and today it still tears at the seams trying to accommodate the two extreme ends of the economic spectrum – and all the people who fall in between.
As a city that contains such a wide array of lifestyles, from the moneyed elite to people just scraping by, our culture reflects a swathe of differences, all with their own traditions, values and tastes. Nowhere is this more evident than in our food.
Perhaps this is why Jo’burg was voted the second-best city in the world for food in May 2024. There is a wealth of restaurants in Jo’burg that display the city’s diversity with their creative and delectable cuisine.
Time Out, which bestowed Jo’burg with this ranking, gave special mention to Braamfontein, ‘the pulse of the city’, for its food. Time Out recognised the ‘innovative ventures combining the forces of food and culture’ in the area.
Indeed, Braam has an abundance of phenomenal places to eat. But the award does not acknowledge that this is not the Braam most people experience.
For most South Africans, food is a tool of survival, not something to be savoured. For 63.5% of South African families, food insecurity is an everyday struggle.
In the four square kilometers of Braamfontein, the city’s vast gap between rich and poor is quite clear in the pervasive food inequality.
How is it that being able to eat is still a major hurdle for people living in the city – even for those living around a prestigious university and in a gentrified urban area?
The many faces of Braamfontein: the suburb as a case study
Braamfontein is a stellar example of the past 30 years of democracy distilled into one place. In the late ’90s, Braam was run down and tired, neglected in the face of all the overwhelming reworking that needed to be done by the new government.
But in 2002, the Johannesburg Development Agency embarked on a multimillion-rand regeneration programme for Braam, recognising its importance to Jo’burg as an economic hub.
Since then, Braam has bloomed: R4-billion of private investment has been poured into the area, and it has become the place to be for many young professionals with cash to burn.
To many Jo’burgers today, Braam is synonymous with trendy bars, beautiful street art and, of course, delicious food.
But Braam is so representative of post-apartheid South Africa because this change, although real, is limited – and only certain people get to bask in its glow.
On the outskirts of this shiny, new Braam, struggling students and residents still live – and still need to eat. What they have access to reflects dire levels of food insecurity and the unequal nature of access to food in South Africa.
The award-winning Salvation Cafe, and the sophisticated Olives & Plates both sit within Braam’s perimeters, small enclaves of cosmopolitan cuisine that in no way align with the average Braam resident’s wallet.
Around the corner and over the way are the everyday food spots that Braam residents actually frequent: fast-food joints, spaza shops and feeding schemes.
These are the many faces of Braamfontein, all painting a picture of the complex and devastating way that food accessibility still stands as a major marker of inequality, starkly segregating South Africans even today.
One of Braam’s most visited food spots – the Mcdonald’s on Jorissen. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Where convenience trumps all – your average spaza shop near Wits University. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
School kids stop for something to eat at one of the spaza shops in Braam. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Savouring the city
Remko van Niekerk is the co-owner of Salvation Cafe, which was established in 2006.
Salvation Cafe is nestled in the heart of 44 Stanley, among boutique stores and coffee shops. Van Niekerk calls it “an artisanal destination” – a place where people’s creations, including food creations, are treated like art.
As he sees it, “44 Stanley has mostly remained an oasis in the urban jungle of Jozi”, despite the changes in the area.
The café is a popular brunch spot under the cover of trees, surrounded by hanging pot plants, and complete with an outdoor fountain. Everything about it is meant to attract patrons from Westcliff and other affluent Northern suburbs.
Salvation Cafe sign. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
A full house at Salvation Cafe, Braamfontein Werf. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Elevenses at Salvation Cafe, featuring their iconic salmon eggs benedict. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Although Van Niekerk says gentrification has increased in the area, he and his staff have also had to deal with the infrastructure issues that plague Braam, like power and water outages.
To combat such expenses while still maintaining a profit, he says the restaurant’s “prices will just have to keep going up”, particularly given the need to pay for alternative energy sources like generators.
On top of this, Van Niekerk’s boss (and wife), chef Claudia Giannoccaro, “is not keen on using lower quality ingredients, thus prices will have to go up accordingly”.
Indeed, Salvation Cafe meals are nutritious, fresh and tasty, loaded with greens and healthy carbs. Their prices reflect this. Burgers range between R130 and R150, salads between R90 and R138, and most lunches cost about R118 (unless you want the teriyaki salmon, which is Salon Qualitaire).
A five-minute drive away on the quiet end of the University of the Witwatersrand (Wits) West Campus, Olives & Plates Wits Club and Conference is housed in a Transvaal vernacular building, with a gorgeous courtyard surrounded by rose bushes and, yes, a fountain.
It is run by sisters Litza Frangos and Andria Neophytou and their husbands, Apo and Dimitri.
The owners of Olives & Plates, who declined requests for interviews, have grown their business into a successful chain of restaurants after originally beginning as canteen caterers for Wits staff. The business was shut down during the #FeesMustFall protests, after which the owners decided to take the business in a different direction.
Inspired by the owners’ Greek roots, the restaurant focuses on elevating classic meals like toasted sandwiches and salads while adding a Grecian flair. Lunches here cost between R150 and R200. Expensive fillet steaks seem to be a speciality and are regular menu picks.
Lunch time at Olives&Plates on West campus, Wits University. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The pristine rose garden at Olives&Plates. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The indoor decor at Olives&Plates. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Lunch fare at Olives&Plates. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
But a restaurant that charges R90 for a fruit salad is a bizarre sight on Wits campus, where students have little choice in what they eat and often go hungry.
So, although fresh food is delivered into Braam every day, the fridges of many students in residence sit empty. What this speaks to, and what the statistics reflect, is that food insecurity is clearly not an issue of supply, but an issue of access.
Walking the breadline
If you walk east from Olives & Plates for about 10 minutes, you will reach The Sanctuary, a beautiful white building that is home to the Wits Citizenship and Community Outreach (WCCO) programme. Every week, the WCCO feeds about 1,000 food-insecure students, who must stand in a long queue to receive their daily meal. Three days a week, the WCCO hands out food parcels of basic groceries to students in need.
Karuna Singh, the WCCO manager, says that in five years the organisation went from handing out “20 parcels to 3,000 parcels” every week.
With ever-rising food prices and stagnant grocery budgets, many students need extra help now more than ever. The National Student Financial Aid Scheme (NSFAS) grocery budget has increased only 10% (about R150) over the past four years, whereas food prices increased 50% during the same period.
Need far outweighs what the WCCO can provide, and even what it does offer depends on the tenuous supply of charitable donations. In fact, since 2017, the donations the WCCO has received have been halved as companies slowly pull back.
“The food bank is not sustainable; the hot meals are not sustainable,” Singh says. To mitigate this, the WCCO has set up food commons, growing vegetables around campus that give students food sovereignty and sustainable, fresh options.
One of the WCCO’s many mini veggie patches around campus at Wits. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The Wits communal veggie patch on East Campus. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The WCCO’s chronically low food stores. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The WCCO building. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The students at the food bank are not destitute. Mostly, they are young people skating along the line of functional poverty; children of single parents or oldest children having to send some of their NSFAS money home each month.
Rivaldo Jantjies, a fellow journalism student at Wits, survives each month from the money his mom can send him. “I can only buy essentials, you know – noodles, bread, peanut butter, milk, sugar – the basic things I need to survive.”
“When it got to the point [at which] I no longer had those basic things, I would go to [the] WCCO,” he says.
Walking past students on campus, you might not see it, but “a lot of students are struggling”, Jantjies observes. “The lines [at the WCCO] are always long.”
Kea Maphila, an international relations honours student, spoke to the all-too-common experience of students in desperate situations while awaiting NSFAS funding.
“My first year, I only got approved in September”, she tells me. In the interim, she says her mom ‘was paying for my res and giving me allowance… It wasn’t a nice experience.’
Maphila’s situation was manageable, but for many students this would have been catastrophic.
NSFAS provides a stipend for groceries, which is usually about R1,650, but subject to change. “My budget is around R1,000,” Maphila says, which is “enough for groceries, but only for groceries”.
For Maphila, food insecurity is a consuming force, forcing students to prioritise their basic survival. “It’s stressful not knowing when your next meal is, but you’re supposed to be at class at 8am, concentrating,” she says.
Thoughtfully, she tells me: “It seeps into every area of your life… you can’t go on with the rest of your day. It removes so much integrity from a person.”
Integrity is a major part of food insecurity, particularly in a social environment like a campus; inequality among students is often emphasised by the type of food they can afford.
This leads back to basic economic inequality – which, in South Africa, is a racial issue, due to the enduring effects of apartheid.
Food insecurity does not exist in a vacuum and food inequality does not sit squarely within the confines of Braam. It is a countrywide problem – an unsolved one, despite promises and attempts by the government.
Zooming out: the economics of inequality
If someone is shopping on a monthly NSFAS allowance of R1,650, a South African Social Security Agency (SASSA) pension of R1,280, a monthly domestic worker’s salary of R3,349, or receives the national minimum wage of R,4400 a month, groceries in today’s economy are almost unaffordable.
This is for a basket of 28 items. But for a basket of just nine basic items (maize, margarine, peanut butter, bananas, potatoes, IQF chicken, black tea, sugar and long-life milk) the prices are still egregious.
Low-priced items will always be the first choice for poor people when buying food. Grocery stores are aware of this fact, enticing them to make their own brand of cheaper products for mass sale.
Closely related to the food insecurity and inequality conundrum is the persistent issue of nutrition insecurity. Across these four major grocery chains, the same product, due to their varying product value and price, will ultimately hold different nutritional values.
Woolworths margarine has the clear nutritional edge: it is the most energising and fatty margarine, but not too packed with sodium. It costs R32.99, in comparison to R17.99 at Checkers, the least nutritious option.
A research paper from the DSI-NRF Centre of Excellence in Food Security explains the reason behind this unfair price leveraging. The research team found that “the minimalist stance of the government” regarding grocery price setting has granted food companies free reign, with “big retail chains [emerging] as custodians of standards, dictating what should be supplied, how and in what form”.
This leaves South Africans vulnerable to the whim of these profit-seeking companies, which can and will change their prices at any time.
Compounding the threat of artificial scarcity is food scarcity brought about by general government incompetence.
Although South Africa produces enough food to feed its population, making it one of the most food secure countries in Africa, millions of people cannot eat. Dr Tobias Doyer, chief executive of Grain SA, says this is because “food security stands on two legs” – the security of access to food and the ability to obtain food – which the government has not provided for poor citizens.
“South African farmers produce enough food. The problem is that millions of South Africans have become poorer with less ability to buy food – causing famine,” Doyer says.
Groceries cost more and money buys less. In an unregulated food market and struggling economy, it follows that food insecurity is an offshoot of inequality, the most pervasive problem in South Africa today.
Thirty years into our democracy, our leadership has still not transformed the lives of the poor or addressed wealth inequality in any meaningful way. The fact that food insecurity is on the rise in South Africa is not an environmental problem, a social failing or the side effect of a global crisis. It is a major systematic failure.
FEATURED IMAGE: Signpost outside the WCCO building. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Chaotic scenes in Braamfontein as two men are fatally shot, another hit by a stray bullet and one is rushed to hospital.
The corner of Jorissen and Bertha streets became a crime scene on February 29, 2024, as an alleged ‘hit’ took place on the busy intersection filled with students and other passersby.
Two men were allegedly targeted while stray bullets hit two University of Johannesburg (UJ) students, one died on the scene and the other was rushed to the hospital for treatment. The students were on a bus believed to be travelling from UJ to Nukerk Student Accommodation in Hillbrow.
The two dead men, believed to be taxi owners, are moved from the BMW they were sitting in when shot at. Photo: Sfundo Parakozov
SAPS crime scene manager, Captain Vincent Saunders said: “What we know is two people were shot, these two people are taxi owners. The bus was passing by with students who accidentally got shot as the bullets crossed.” In videos shared on social media, students can be heard screaming and crying moments after the two students were hit.
Dear UJ students.
UJ saddened by the death of its student in a shooting incident
It is with profound sadness that the University of Johannesburg (UJ) has learnt of the death of its student, who was caught in crossfire during a shooting incident in Braamfontein this afternoon…
Speaking to Wits Vuvuzela shortly after the incident UJ spokesperson, Herman Esterhuizen said “at this stage everything is quite chaotic,” as the university gathered more information.
In a short statement issued on Thursday evening, the university confirmed the tragic death of an “18-year-old male, [who] was a second-year student,” and the recovery of another. Students who were on the bus have been encouraged to seek out counselling services offered internally.
Eyewitnesses say they heard five gunshots in quick succession before assailants ran off and jumped into a getaway car. By the time Wits Vuvuzela got to the scene, the intersection was being cordoned off and and the three lifeless bodies had been covered with repatriation foil.
Family members of one of the deceased did not want to comment but said answers on what may have happened could be found if Wits Vuvuzela contacted Faraday Taxi Association. Calls to the association went unanswered.
FEATURED IMAGE: The body of one of the students caught in the crossfire is carried into a forensic pathology van. The student is yet to be identified. Photo: Sfundo Parakozov
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 […]
