Hustlers Corner Shop is a barber’s where relationships are formed, advice is given and a brotherhood has developed. It represents the community and the many cultures that thrive on Louis Botha Avenue.
The mannequin heads Professor Nkomo uses to practise cutting white people’s hair as a way to broaden the barber’s target market. Photo: Lwandile Shange
For the past three years Professor Nkomo has left his home in Orange Grove at 8am, placed a batch of energy drinks he sells in his barber’s shop into the boot of his rusty old white Toyota Corolla, and then made his way to work on Louis Botha avenue. On arrival, like every other day, Nkomo lights a cigarette and unfolds the garage door that secures his barber’s shop, where he then cleans his tools for the day and prepares for what he calls a busy day of the week, Friday.
It is 9am and no customers have arrived yet. Nkomo leaves the shop open and gets into his car, which he has parked just outside, and awaits the arrival of his brother, with whom he runs the barber’s. On many days there will be no customers and he will only be visited during their lunch breaks by people who work around Louis Botha Avenue.
Brother Eric arrives and starts shifting furniture around to sweep up the piles of hair on the floor. Nkomo keeps himself busy and starts scratching in a compartment outside his shop, where he stores unique-looking mannequin heads. “Eita mf’ethu, what are you doing?” a passer-by asks him. “I am practicing a different style of cutting hair, my brother,” says Nkomo.
A barber’s shop that bridges the gap between black and white
Space inside the barber’s shop is tight, but there is enough for Professor Nkomo to cut customers’ hair and enjoy his Zimbabwean music on the PC. Photo: Lwandile Shange
He takes up one of three mannequin that resemble white men and have hair and beard textures similar to those of white people. The three heads have a fair skin tone, like most mannequins, but they stick out not just because of that, but because of the condition they are in. The heads have suffered quite a few bruises and dents. Strands of hair fall from the mannequin heads as you handle them, because Nkomo utilizes them quite a lot.
“I bought these mannequins so that I can teach myself how to cut white people’s hair. A lot of white people come here and struggle to find a salon that caters for them. I am trying to bridge that gap and make this place more accommodating for everyone who lives here,” explains the owner of the Hustlers Corner Shop.
Nkomo named his barber’s shop “Hustlers Corner” because he regards himself as a hustler. A hustler has many definitions, but for him it is someone who is hard-working and able to make something out of nothing.
The 37-year-old came to South Africa in 2004 to escape poverty.“I had to leave Zimbabwe so that I could better my life and provide for my family, and that is why I chose to come to Orange Groove to try and make something of myself,” he said. Louis Botha Avenue has, over the years, become a place of refuge for many of the African migrants who are now residents of the area.
The influx of migrants caused a shift as the first residents of Louis Botha Avenue, mostly white, moved out, leaving the area to cater more for the African newcomers. Louis Botha became the perfect place to establish his shop. Nkomo says it was difficult to start elsewhere because here “I know a lot of people that come from Zimbabwe, which made me feel like Louis Botha is a home away from home”.
Louis Botha Avenue: ‘a home away from home’
Hustlers Corner Shop stands tall on Louis Botha Avenue. The barber’s shop opened it’s doors in 2011. Photo: Lwandile Shange
From the Zimbabwean mechanic, hairdresser and tailor to store owners, Louis Botha Avenue has provided a number of people like Nkomo the opportunity to build a life supported and protected by fellow countrymen in another country. These Zimbabwean-built businesses survive thanks to the people of Louis Botha Avenue and the sense of community they provide, making life easier for Zimbabweans in the area.
“I am very comfortable here because the area and people are very accommodating.” The barber explains that everyone supports each other, despite the competition for customers, and everyone is willing to help you. Nkomo feels part of the many barber’s shops that occupy Louis Botha, but time and competition from many other foreign hair salons have forced him to come up with new ideas so that his doors remain open.
Louis Botha has undergone many changes since the time it was home to notorious gangsters, Jews and Italians. Many of the businesses on Louis Botha were owned and run by Italians or Jews, such as Nussbaum’s Kosher Butchery, Ital Machinery and Super Sconto, an Italian diner that still exists in the area. Many of Louis Botha’s old residents moved away from the area and foreign nationals have since moved in to establish themselves in an area whose locals share a similar culture.
Above: Professor Nkomo is the owner of the Hustlers Corner Shop which is a barber’s shop on Louis Botha Avenue. He incorporates he’s Zimbabwean culture by the way he cuts the customers hair and the music he plays.
Hustlers Corner Shop, embodies the art of hustling
The avenue is largely a business street, with Nkomo’s shop being surrounded by a number of hair salons, tailors, internet cafes, convenience shops and places of worship, to name a few. After the many changes that Louis Botha Avenue has undergone, there are more than 15 salons, restaurants and churches in the area.
Stepping into the barber’s, there is a constant stream of noise, taxis honk their horns every minute, and cars speed by only to get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic due to the development of Rea Vaya, a form of public transport, and roadworks. The barber’s shop is painted yellow and blue, and the inside is so tiny it can accommodate only one customer at a time. When you enter, the first thing you hear is loud music blasting from a dusty old PC used as a music player.
In a corner of the shop you will find a bar fridge stocked with Dragon energy drinks and alcohol; but this is no ordinary alcohol. It comes in sachets and is mixed with whiskey. Nkomo sells it as a “side hustle”, he said.When he opened his barbershop he also used to sell vintage clothing and plates of food. “When I first started cutting hair I would sell bales of clothing at cheap prices so I could make extra money and support my family,” he said.
Clipper combs are placed ontop of the mirror inside the barber’s shop as an artictic gesture. Photo: Lwandile Shange Below: The hair clippers Professor Nkomo uses to cut customers’ hair. Photo: Lwandile ShangeThis is the space where barber Proffessor Nkomo plays his music, places his hair clippers, razors and cleaning equipment. Photo: Lwandile Shange
Music has become a recollection of culture
As the music plays in the background, Nkomo describes his love of music and how some of the songs he plays remind him of his home in Zimbabwe. There is a large collection of CDs on his desk and he said he used to be “in that industry”. Not only did he sell clothes on the side, but also pirated CDs and DVDs to anyone who was willing to buy them. He later stopped when he realised it could get him into trouble.
Nkomo’s brother, Eric, is also passionate about barbering, but communicating is a struggle for him since he was hit by a truck in childhood, which caused mental damage that later affected his speech. Eric managed, however, to express that he enjoyed the work, picking up hair clippers and muttering “nice” as he smiled at them. Hustlers Corner Shop opened its doors in 2016, but the 37-year-old had already started barbering in 2011.
It is 1pm and a red vehicle parks in front of the store. A middle-aged man wearing a brightly coloured t-shirt steps out and shouts “Professor!” Nkomo rushes out of the store and I ask him who this man is. He says, “this is Innocent Skhosana, a regular customer at Hustlers Corner Shop and a friend of mine.”’ “Sawubona sisi,” Skhosana greets. His energy fills up the room as everyone gravitates to him. “Would you like a beer?” asks Skhosana. I decline his offer politely and ask him about his visit to the barber’s and if he lives on Louis Botha Avenue. Skhosana explains how the barber’s shops form part of the Louis Botha community. “The Hustlers Corner Shop is one of the few places I feel comfortable at, not only to get my hair cut but to chill with friends and catch up on what has been happening in their lives,” he said.
Left: Innocent Skhosana parks his red vehicle in front of the shop to get a haircut from Nkomo. Photo: Lwandile Shange
A brotherhood within the barber’s shop
Over the five years that Skhosana has been Nkomo’s customer, they have developed a brotherhood. There was a time when Skhosana was so broke, he went to Nkomo and was offered a place to sleep by the barber. “Hustlers Corner Shop is where I found my family, even though I left my family in Zim,” he said. Barber’s shops on Louis Botha Avenue are home to many foreign nationals who come not only for a cut and shave but also for advice, support and overall to be a brotherhood.
Since the turn of the 19th century, beauty salons and barber shops have served as special places for Africans. According to an article in New Republic, the barber’s shop has become a place where men gather and spend time with other men, form close relationships, seek out advice and as a place to escape their problems. They have been places where black people could be vulnerable and talk about issues of importance to the community. Customers discuss local gossip, politics and community affairs. Original residents moved away from Louis Botha due to increased crime, house invasions, illegal businesses and never-ending road works in the path of urban decay. African migrants did not care about the socio-political pressures. They just wanted a place where they could live without fear of being attacked as foreigners.
Above: Barber Professor Nkomo sits in his shop and mulls his future plans. Photo: Lwandile Shange
As the day progressed and Hustlers Corner Shop got busier, Nkomo was on his fifth customer of the day. He gushed with excitement when a middle-aged man who looked like a regular greeted him and asked if he could go next, for an “English cut”. Nkomo explained that the English cut was part of his Zimbabwean culture and there is a specific way it is done, hence he is happy when people ask for it as it gives him an opportunity to let his culture shine through. The customer’s name is David Ncube and he is a regular customer. He explained that the first time he saw the English cut was at Nkomo’s shop. He liked it and wanted the exact same style. “I have seen that cut many times before, but there is something in the way Prof does it that makes me like it even more,” he said.
The future is bright for Nkomo
According to a journal article titled Fading, Twisting and Weaving: An interpretive ethnography of the black barbershop as a cultural space, the barber’s shop is an institution of social exchange where culture and community play an influential role. It is a cultural space that allows the exchange of ideas and discussion among barbers and customers. Hustlers Corner Shop operates from 9am to 9pm and makes on average between R400 and R600 a day. Louis Botha has provided Nkomo with the opportunity to support his wife, Forget Nkomo, and their three kids.
Nkomo met his wife in Zimbabwe and came with her to South Africa, where they could build a better life and future for their South African-born children. Nkomo says South Africa is a place of opportunity, and if he had stayed in Zimbabwe he would still be struggling to provide for himself, let alone his family. “This place gave me security. When xenophobia took place we looked out for each other and that just proved to me that when I am here I have a family,” he said. Nkomo sat down on one of the shaky chairs in his salon as he cleaned his barbershop tools for the last time for the day. He then stepped out of the salon to pack away the mannequin heads that were to bring him white customers, although none came. Looking into the distance, he said one day he hopes to own a number of barber’s shops around the African continent as a means “to celebrate the many different cultures and expand the business”.
FEATURED IMAGE: An image of a barbershop. Photo: Supplied
Melville’s 4th Avenue has had its share of the hustle and bustle of shops opening and closing, but the barbershop and the man who owns it tell a different story. The barbershop is a marvel that has seen the changes of the Melville landscape but has remained as it is, where it is, for 48 years.
WALKING ALONG 4th Avenue in Melville, a car races past me, whizzing into the oblivion that thrives in the city life. On the side of the road, a car washer smothers a red Fiat in soap bubbles as the sun dries the soapy water away before he can wipe it down. Across the road I notice a small shop in between a framer and a Lebanese restaurant.
TIMELESS: Fred Moss is Melville’s friendly face and owner of the Scala hair salon.
Scissors are cut into the shop’s gate and the old rustic feel of the windows and signage tell me that the shop has been in existence for a while. Peering through the words written on the window, I spot an older man in a white coat. His hands working precisely to get that perfect cut for the grey-haired man sitting in his chair.
The Melville barbershop, Scala, has been in existence for 48 years and is one of the oldest existing shops in the Melville area. The hair salon was originally part of the Scala corner, an establishment at the corner of 4th Avenue and 7th Street Melville, which included a bakery, supermarket and bioscope. The barbershop was passed down from father to son. Little did the young 17-year-old know that the shop would exist for a lifetime and that he would become part of the tapestry of the Melville suburb.
Entering the small shop, I am met with a welcoming smile. The man in the white coat introduces himself as Fred Moss. His wrinkled, red-faced facial features tell tales of a long-winded road; a journey of where he is now. His calloused fingers seem rough with years of experience and his piercing blue eyes peer into the soul of every person who walks through the salon’s doors.
“I hated working here,” Fred tells me one afternoon. For Fred, becoming a barber was not his first dream, he had wanted to become a sign writer as he loved drawing. Unfortunately, Fred doesn’t have much time to draw today as he did back in the day.
The 65-year-old didn’t have it easy when he was younger. At 17, he was forced by his father to leave school and work in the barbershop. At the time, the shop was owned by Fred’s father, George Moss, and Fred’s brother-in-law, Piet Wessels. He spent his days cleaning up the shop.
In 1970, Fred joined the army for three months. That was when he realised that “In for a penny, in for a pound” (meaning, if you’re going to do something you should see it through till the end and put your all into it) and reconciled himself with being in the business.
During the time, he had no choice as the army was an obligation for every white man, once they had turned 18 in South Africa. At the time, under apartheid, Melville was a white suburb. Fred’s brother-in-law had left the business and Fred’s father had told him that he had to either take over the business or the barbershop would close. In 1971, Fred took out a loan and bought the business for R900, an investment that he is reaping the rewards of today.
After Fred took over the business, he became a master at cutting hair and completed his apprenticeship, in a year. He also found it hard to fulfil his obligations in relation to the 10-year contract with the army. In 1974, he managed to amend his contract with the army so that he was commissioned to cut hair and became known as the army barber.
VINTAGE: These red chairs line one side of Fred’s shop. He bought them at a bargain price from the army and believes that they give his shop an authentic barber feel.
The carved chairs that line the left side of his store are a relic from his army days. Fred grins as he tells me, “I stole them legally.” When the army was getting rid of the chairs, Fred asked whether he could buy them for R150 each. The general at the time refused his request at first, believing that the chairs were worth way more than that, but Fred didn’t back down and eventually got the chairs for what he believes was a ‘steal’. “Even if someone came today and offered me R20 000 for each chair, I would not sell them, they are part of me and the barbershop,” Fred says.
Asked about what made him fall in love with the job eventually, Fred says that the people with whom he interacted made him realise his passion. “I haven’t actually got customers, I have friends. They all share very personal things with me. Sometimes I feel like I am a psychologist rather than a barber,” Fred chuckles.
George and Piet had to take out surety for Fred in case he encountered any debt while running the business.
“There have been ups and downs in the business and some months are more difficult than others,” Fred says.
When times get tough, customers cut down on luxuries, says Fred. A haircut is one of those luxuries, but Fred says that his customers tell him that things are a bit tight for the month, so they will return the following month.
Surprisingly, Fred has never spent a cent on an advertisement. All his clients have come from word of mouth because of how well-known he has become in the Melville community. He says that over the past few years, he has been privileged to gain traction from being featured on the popular South African television show, 7de Laan. Scala is also often hired out for companies and brands to shoot their advertisements in, and from there people want to come and see the famous Scala barber.
In the 1970s monthly rental for the barbershop was R45. Today Fred pays R10 000, which Fred says has come under the economic pressures of the times. But he says that it is fair considering that the price for a haircut has also gone up. Fred used to charge 35c for an adult’s haircut in the 1970s. Today he charges R100.
FAMILIAR: Fred sits on the steps leading into his shop as he observes the bustle of 4th Avenue. Despite his age, he has no plans to retire anytime soon, saying that he has put his whole life into the business.
The 65-year-old talks about how he has adapted to what goes on around him, but has never changed the salon. For Fred, he wanted to keep the authenticity of the barbershop and never felt the need to change the decor in or outside the shop.
“Never mind, I’ll find someone like you…”, singer Adele whispers in the background as I look around the barbershop. Where the ceiling meets the walls, are hanging caps – blue, red, green, South African. Three old-fashioned barber chairs are lined up on one side of the shop, while on the right-hand side are the old, magical, red chairs.
They look as if when you sit on them, they would transform into time machines, shooting you back to a time when hippies were a whole generation. Nothing has changed inside the salon. But looking out on 7th Street, a Chevy Camaro bounces down the street with Michael Jackson’s “The way you make me feel, you really turn me on…” blasting from its speakers.
STREETWISE: If you visit Melville, you are sure to spot James, who is the only car guard on 4th Avenue. He and Fred have a family-like relationship and James is grateful for Fred’s presence in the neighbourhood.
I approached the car washer after I had seen him enter Fred’s shop multiple times. James Mokhalinyane seems a lot younger than his 33 years. The red bucket-cap that has swallowed his face hides his big eyes and eerie smile. His hands tell tales of a hard worker, finding whatever jobs he can to survive, on a tar that has adopted him as part of the road signs.
James has been hustling on 7th Street for more than 20 years and has a bond with Fred that one can only describe as being part of the family. “To me, [Fred] is like my father. When he has some jobs at his shop, when I need some money or even when the police come and try to chase me away, he negotiates my stay with them,” a grateful James says.
James says that since he started working in the area there has been a lot of shift and change. “Before it used to be good, now it’s too much clubs and crime,” he says.
Even while the suburb is over-run by students roaming the street, if one stops and listens closely enough, one can hear the hum of the wind or the buzz of sunshine on a hot summer’s day. It is hard to believe that crime has grimly seeped its way into the suburb, destroying the atmosphere that once was.
James invites me to sit on the side of the hot pavement as he tells me about how the businesses that have opened in Melville now don’t know what the people want, and that is why some of them are failing miserably.
“Fred is different,” he says as he allows me the privilege of a grin, “He has his regular customers and he knows what people want. He hasn’t changed a lot over the years and he isn’t like other barbers where you must make an appointment. You can just walk into Fred’s shop at any time and the man is happy to help.”
VIDEO: Fred has been cutting hair for most of his life and says that one has to be an artist in order to cut someone’s hair. Fred has cut hair for four generations of men and will continue to do so until he cannot anymore. He shares some of his tips and techniques he has learnt over the years.
A tall, grey man enters the salon, and greets Fred like an old friend. Taking a seat on one of the shop’s barber chairs, he begins to engage with Fred over the troubles that have recently taken over his life. Fred’s hands work precisely, cutting stray strands and neatening up the fellow’s hair as he listens with intent and offers sound advice.
Brahm Spies, a 70-year-old lawyer, needs no invitation for introductions. “Fred is part of the furniture. He has been cutting my hair for 40 years, back when it was all black,” the gentleman throws his head back as he lets out a roar of laughter.
Brahm is moving to Cape Town in December and is distraught that he might have to change barbers. “I might just fly back to get my hair cut once a month,” Spies says.
A bare-footed older man, Japie Le Roux, pads his way into the shop when he decides to take a seat next to me. He yaps on about how he has known Fred for 48-years and has only ever cut his hair in the comfort of the Scala hair salon.
“I have never had any complaints about Fred, but I would suggest that you don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth,” he and Fred chuckle as they share an inside joke.
For Natasha Hunter, another customer, until five years ago, Melville had been her whole life. St Swithins Avenue is the street that Natasha used to live with her family.
Natasha says that she loved growing up in Melville. “When I was 12 or so, I remember one year for Mardi Gras, that we camped out in Fred’s shop watching the festivities,” she says.
Now 33 years old, Natasha says she was little when her father started taking her to Scala to get her hair cut. As a little girl Natasha was not keen on cutting her hair but with Fred being the barber everything was always a little bit more humorous. “I was so upset, that he then took the hair and put it on my head and said, ‘See, it will stick and grow back,” Natasha recounts the fiasco that took place that first day at Scala.
SNIP, SNIP: Fred attends to a regular customer, Mauritz Cloete. Although Mauritz has only been coming to Scala for two years, he says that Fred has the best expertise of the barbers in the area. He adds that Fred’s prices are good, which keeps him coming back.
Although she has not visited the area for five years, Natasha says it would be disappointing to come to Melville and not see Fred or the barbershop. Hers is a testimony to Fred’s friendliness that has kept Scala going for the 48-years that he has run the business.
According to Natasha, Fred has managed to stay in the area for so long because, “He gets to know his customers on a personal basis, his friendly way with people, and the fact that through thick and thin, he has stuck it out.”
FEATURED IMAGE: Fred Moss is Melville’s friendly face and owner of the Scala hair salon. Photo: Naeemah Dudan.
There are many hair salons in Fordsburg that are all competing for customers, but with the increase in foreign-owned businesses and the changes seen in Fordsburg all the old barbershops have closed, except for one.
Every day Chhagan Cgopal takes the familiar 30-minute journey from his bus stop at the heart of Johannesburg’s city centre to his barbershop in Fordsburg, a trip he has taken for over 40 years. He unlocks the security gate and swaps his beige raincoat and faded black fez hat for his still pristine, white cutting coat on the hook in the corner of his tiny shop. Then, like every other day, he reads the daily paper on the unsteady plastic chairs at the door, waiting for customers. On most days no customers will come, no one will visit except for the local car guards who ask to use his taps.
Cgopal, who is now in his late 70s, is the last traditional men’s barbershop left in a Fordsburg that was once bustling with people going to the Majestic bioscope or children playing marbles in the dirt road. But now, time and competition from newer foreign hair salons have closed the doors on others like him.
WAITING FOR CUSTOMERS: Chhagan Cgopal spends most of his time paging through the local newspapers that he piles up on the chair next to him, while waiting for customers to come to his now quiet barbershop in Fordsburg. Photo: Tanisha Heiberg
The old Fordsburg hangout
Fordsburg has undergone many changes from the time when it was home to notorious gangsters, and classic, slicked-back hair was the style. Many of its old residents have moved away and hopeful foreigners have moved in to establish themselves in an area whose locals share a similar culture.
The over 40-year-old Majestic barbershop, named after the old bioscope, is now lost between worn brick buildings. The faint sound of the radio playing in the background and the squeaking of the corner fan break the silence in the cluttered shop.
Despite it being discarded, the Majestic barbershop has become an icon in the area that many people have never forgotten through stories from their fathers and grandfathers.
Zunaid Varachia, a long-time South African resident and business owner, recalled the streets in front of the hairdressers in town being lined with children and their anxious mothers a few days before Eid celebrations. “People used to go [to the barber] at three o’clock in the afternoon and wait in the queue and sometimes finish at 6 o’clock,” said Varachia.
MAJESTIC MEMENTOS: The small yellowing cupboards in his shop hold not only his scissors and straight blades, but also act as display cases for old photographs and newspaper clippings. Cgopal speaks fondly of pictures showing the gangsters whose hair he used to cut or the other barbers who worked in the shop with him. ‘More than 20 years they worked for me, now they all late,’ said Cgopal. Photo: Tanisha Heiberg
Varachia explained how the barbershops were always a part of the community atmosphere in Fordsburg. “The barbershop was the hangout spot … In my time you would always see people you know at the hairdresser waiting for a haircut,” said Varachia.
These barbershop hangout spots were home to many of the local men who came not only for a cut and shave but also to catch up on the news in the area. The Majestic barbershop even cut the hair of some of Fordsburg’s notorious gangsters who would charge people in the area a fee for their protection.
“All these gangsters they know us very well … they don’t trouble us … they were good gangsters, you had to pay protection fee like American style,” said Cgopal. But now in an area rife with crime, security gates and burglar bars are all that protect the old barbershop.
With a burst of laugher, the barber speaks fondly of the time when he himself still had hair.
“You know, Elvis style,” said a balding Cgopal, gesturing to the height of his once-full hair. Even in the 1990s, Fordsburg’s hair salons were crammed with young men eager to maintain their image and get the very popular bleached highlights.
“Those hairdressers used to stay open till eight o’clock at night … that time, eight o’clock was late,” said Varachia. Now in Fordsburg you might even be able to find a hair salon open at 11 o’clock at night just to make the most out of the last few hours of the day.
‘Retiring his cutting scissors’
GREEN BACKS: The Majestic Barber in Fordsburg is home to many photographs and antiques such as the worn leather green cutting chairs. The tiny shop once held five barbers chairs, but now only two remain after they were sold to antique collectors. Photo: Tanisha Heiberg
For Cgopal, who needs to close his shop with enough time for him to walk into town and catch the last bus home, this is just another way his old barbershop no longer makes the cut.
“I can’t compete with those guys there, I close five o’clock, they close late evening,” said Cgopal. Despite the impact that the barbershops had on the sense of community in the area, they are still dwindling and taking a piece of the era’s history with them.
Like many businesses that have witnessed the evolution of Fordsburg, the Majestic Barber is a family business that goes back three generations. It had its first beginnings in the Oriental Plaza which was built to relocate the shops that were demolished after the apartheid government tore down the market in the nearby suburb of Fietas. The shabby, black waiting bench and the yellowing, old photographs of Elvis hairstyles and newspaper clippings stand the risk of being lost as the next generation loses interest in the relics of the past.
“I tried to teach [my children] but they want to do something else, you know computers, accounting, things like that,” explained Cgopal.
This last gentlemen’s barbershop with its empty green leather chairs stands in stark contrast to the many modern Indian, Pakistani and Somali hair salons that continue to spring up in the area.
This hasn’t been an isolated case, with old restaurants, cafes and theatres running dry without customers and the influx of new foreign business. “It was full, you could never get any bookings at any restaurant and now it is just completely dead,” said Varachia.
Hair salon turf wars
“There is too much competition … old clients come around and support me, that’s why I’m surviving; new guys came here and spoil my business,” said Cgopal. With only a few older customers left who still support him, after many have died or moved away, it has become a struggle to pay for rising rental costs. This has left Cgopal thinking about retiring his cutting scissors and straight blade.
BUSTLE: Mint Street in Fordsburg in lined with hair salons and clothing stores mostly owned by foreign immigrants, as well as informal traders. Photo: Tanisha Heiberg.
With salons on almost every street, their territories have begun to overlap and competition is no longer just having an impact on the old shops but it is also causing the newer salons to make changes to differentiate themselves and survive.
“In Fordsburg there is too much competition,” said Javd Khalifa, a hairdresser with a modern salon who has experienced rivalry with the stores located on the same street as him.
Once the shop doors have been rolled up at the busy Five Star Hair Salon, the customers are greeted at a reception area before they are seated in any one of the four chrome and black leather chairs in front of the glass and granite cutting stations.
Shilpa Vala, a beautician and ladies’ hairdresser at the salon, said that there are three to four salons on every street. “It’s difficult, in 2009 it wasn’t the same as now, it was OK … now there’s more salons, maybe a hundred,” said Vala sitting on one of the large, leather waiting couches.
Five Star, like many other salons, had to adapt and find ways to “out-cut” their competitors by incorporating beauty treatments and henna tattooing into their stores.
Vala explained that in order to prevent her customers from going next door, she needs to charge different prices in the Fordsburg salon than she does 1in her other salon.
“In Norwood you can charge full price and they pay, but here you can’t, else they go next door.”
SMOOTH: Thishen Pillay receiving a close shave by the owner Mahesh Maisuriyu in the busy Five Star unisex hair salon on Mint Street. Five Star is one of the many foreign-owned hair salons in the area Photo: Tanisha Heiberg.
Samir Khelife, a salon owner in a particularly busy street, went as far as opening up his own salon across from the one where he used to be employed as a hairdresser. He hit upon an innovation, which Cgopal never would have tried; dressing women’s hair for R70 more than he would charge a man. “For ladies I can get R120,” said Khelife.
The increased competition has not gone unnoticed by customers. “The only thing which is cheaper now than what it was 10 years ago is … a haircut,” said Varachia with a grin.
With the decrease in price more people are now able to go to the hairdresser more often. “I’ve got some friends who don’t shave themselves at all, every week they go to one of these shops and get a haircut and a shave,” said Varachia.
But even if the Majestic barbershop could implement strategies like lower prices, Cgopal still could not compete with its older customer base, because of the changing styles and the growth of a younger clientele who go to more modern salons that are known for shaving designs into the customer’s hair.
“All the foreigners they do stylish things, but I’m old school, so all the youngsters don’t support me anymore, they go to the foreigners,” said Cgopal.
A home away from home
However, there are often many employment problems faced by foreigners who are in search of a better life. Many South African employers favour local workers and immigration legislation is often burdensome for migrant workers.
This results in many migrants starting their own businesses. According to a study by the Migrating for Work Research Consortium (MiWORC), 21% of foreigners are classified as self-employed. The study used results from data collected by Statistics South Africa in 2012 to analyse the effect migrants have on business.
The study also found that foreign-born workers are more likely to work in the service and sales industry, such as hair salons and shops. “It’s better here than in India … because here you can find job or work easily,” explained one hairdresser who has been in South Africa for six years.
With so many foreigners starting businesses, many migrants chose Fordsburg for its cultural familiarity that reminds them of home. “I feel like I’m in my country,” said Vala who has been in Fordsburg since 2009.
Many have described Fordsburg as being unique and having “a certain heartbeat” but despite this many of the original Fordsburg residents are moving away in search of other areas that have that same sense of community.
“Previously it was a very community based area … that has changed in recent years … Fordsburg is now very diverse,” explained Varachia while sipping a pressed juice from an Egyptian café and hookah lounge.
Many of the small businesses are owned by Pakistanis who come here to make money to send back home. He explained that they have little responsibilities and expenses compared to South African shop owners who are established with families and bigger expenses.
“They don’t need as much to make it … whatever little money they make is a profit,” said Varachia.
CLOSE SHAVE: Thishen Pillay receiving a shave and hair cut by the owner Mahesh Maisuriyu (from left) in the busy Five Star unisex hairsalon on Mint Street. Customers sit on the green leather couches waiting to have their hair cut by Maisuriyu who has been a hairdresser for 15 years. Photo: Tanisha Heiberg.
It’s not just the barbershops that have been affected by the influx of foreigners, many other shops are increasingly being owned by non-South Africans. “If you look at Mint Road, it used to be all restaurants, now it’s a huge group of Egyptians that sell Muslim dress cloths,” said Varachia, who grew up in the area.
Many of these stores however are very successful with foreign nationals now taking the place of South African consumers who have moved out of Fordsburg. In these communities the shop owners have come to know each other and generally sell their goods at a similar price to allow everyone the chance to survive.
“They don’t cut each other out … It’s quite common with the foreign communities, they try to support each other,” said Varachia. This also often benefits locals who travel to Fordsburg from other parts of Johannesburg because of their lower prices and wide selection of goods.
But for the Majestic barber this doesn’t bring any more customers but rather signals the end of an era. The once popular barber, whose face brightened when he told stories of the past from old photographs, has found himself alone and irrelevant in a modern and changed Fordsburg.
“Today it was slow,there was no one … one of these days I have to close,” said Cgopal as his usual smile faded as he returned to paging through his newspaper inside the empty shop.
FEATURED IMAGE:WAITING FOR CUSTOMERS: Chhagan Cgopal spends most of his time paging through the local newspapers that he piles up on the chair next to him, while waiting for customers to come to his now quiet barbershop in Fordsburg. Photo: Tanisha Heiberg
In-depth 2019: Louis Botha Louis Botha Avenue’s ‘Little Italy’: What is left of la dolce vita? By: Gemma Gatticchi Amid Louis Botha Avenue’s shift in demographics, a few businesses stand out as relics of the former Italian migrant community that made the area home....
‘When I get into something, I don’t let it go, regardless of how difficult it is,’ says the newly minted PhD holder.
Lecturer at the Wits Centre for Journalism (WCJ), Dr. Enoch Sithole recently obtained his PhD on his extensive research into media coverage of climate change in South Africa.
Sithole was born in the old mining town of Barberton in Mpumalanga, in 1965 to a Swazi mother and a Tsonga father. He left Barberton at the age of 12 and went to Mozambique with his dad, spending nine years in the country. Sithole attributes the move to his multilingualism, he is proficient in Tsonga, Swati, English and Portuguese.
He returned to the country in 1983 and followed his father’s footsteps by working at the same mine in Baberton. “My interest in journalism came under anti-apartheid activism when I joined a workers’ union and became a heavy consumer of news,” shared Sithole. Consequently, he was recruited at an anti-apartheid newspaper in 1988 called New Nation, he joined permanently as a reporter after three months of training.
“When I was thinking about my PhD, I tried to find something that would be unique. I could have done my PhD on a purely journalism subject because that is my background.” Sithole decided to research on climate change for his doctorate, noting that the media only covers the topic during conferences or when there are disastrous events.
His research emphasized that climate change should not be looked at as only existing in the physical science space because solutions to the global issue are also found in social spaces. “If we’re going to involve everybody in fighting climate change we need to communicate. I want to take a subject such as climate change to the masses through journalism and other communication methods,” said Sithole.
The father of two children and three grandchildren graduated with honours in 2017, a master’s in 2018 and recently a doctorate on April 24, 2023, whilst working as a lecturer at the WCJ. Sithole said the field of journalism is demanding especially when one is trying to complete their studies while working. “One needs to plan their life accordingly, even your family will understand that it’s work, it’s not something you can avoid,” said Sithole.
Sithole is currently working on a proposal to “determine empirically, not speculatively” why media rarely covers climate change and why people find climate change an elusive subject. This is in addition to a report he wrote for Fojo Media Institute about the inadequacy of climate change reportage in South Africa between 2021 and 2022.
Programme coordinator at Fojo Media Institute, Jean Mujati described Sithole as a very humble and professional person. She further mentioned that he was recommended by the former WCJ director Professor Franz Kruger. “We [the institute] needed an expert who understood the South African media landscape, [which is] something that we found in Dr Sithole,” Mujati said.
While Kruger said he worked with Sithole at New Nation in the 1980s. “I appreciate Enoch for his experience in the media, and his insightful way of thinking about issues in journalism. His focus on climate change reporting is timely, and I am very happy that he completed his PhD in the area.”
“I have my PhD, now it’s a matter of making it work” said Sithole. He further noted that he would love to continue teaching journalism and increasingly combine it with climate change.
His final words were, “One thing I would like people to know about me is that I tend to commit to what I want to do, I grab hard. When I get into something, I don’t let it go, regardless of how difficult it is”.
FEATURED IMAGE: Dr. Enoch Sithole posiing for a picture at his office at the Wits Centre for Journalism. Photo: Sfundo Parakozov
Covid-19 and the subsequent lockdown have had a devastating impact on many business owners and employees. Included in this scenario are foreign nationals and undocumented people who have had to try to pick themselves up in usually packed commercial trade areas such as Fordsburg and China Mall, experiencing low recovery .
The ability to easily find parking on the usually packed and busy streets of Fordsburg on a Saturday where road rage, traffic and double parking were a staple no more, was already a tell-tale sign of the devastatingeffect the covid-19 pandemic has had on businesses and their employees.
Many were forced to shut their doors for over three months, with no source of income,after the hard lockdown was implemented in South Africa on March 27. This resulted in more than three million jobs being lost between February and April, and over 1.5 million people who had jobs but no pay, according to a Nids-Cram surveyof 7000 people. Some were able to keep their businesses and jobs, but are still far from full recovery.
Fordsburg, a hub for foreign-owned businesses and migrant workers, started off as a place where locals and foreigners would sell goods in the open Fordsburg Square flea market. This created an affordable marketplace for selling a variety of items such as fruits and vegetables, Indian and Pakistani spices, replica clothing items and pirated DVDs.
The opportunities for foreigners grew with the influx of shoppers looking for affordable haircuts, groceries, food stalls and established restaurants. The conflicting aromas of the different restaurants were soon overtaken by the scent of curries and chicken tikka, the sweet smell of hubbly bubbly flavours, and incense as Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Egyptian nationals saw the growth of the commercial trade in the area. This allowed foreigners to generate sufficient revenue to open shops, and created a sense of community and a piece of their home countries as they drew on their common nationalities.
South Africa in general has been an economic magnet for many migrants searching for better job opportunities, but a true indication of the numbers is hard to quantify. It is estimated by the African Centre for Migration and Societythat there were two million international migrants of working age (15-64) in South Africa in 2017, representing 5.3% of the country’s labour force. The International Organisation for Immigration’s (IOM’s) 2020 World Migration report estimates that this number is as high as 4.2 million as of 2019, accounting for 7.2% of the population.
A couple scorned by lockdown woes
With the lockdown, however, Fordsburg has struggled to regain its allure. On the now desolate Park Drivestands a beauty parlour that was forced to close its doors for three months due to its “non-essential” status. Only those that provided food, medicine, banking services, healthcare, fuel, internet and municipal services could remain open.
The parlour owner, Samim Patel, does threading, waxing, facials and cuts hair. But upon entering her shop, now overflowing with her one-year-old’s toys, she was found sitting in anticipation, for just one customer to walk in. Looking out at the empty streets, a slow reminiscent smile spread over her face as she said, “Before the lockdown, we never even had the time to eat. I even remember those days when I used to have a biscuit and water and carry on working, because there was no time to eat.”
“I don’t really get customers anymore. Sometimes I get R20 and sometimes nothing at all“
Her shop of seven years, which used to open from 8am to 8pm, now with the lack of foot traffic sometimes opens at 10am and closes at 3pm.
Regardless of many businesses opening their doors again, the fear of contracting covid-19 has overpowered the desire to seek grooming. Samim’s smile quickly vanished as she brought herself back to the present, “I don’t really get customers anymore. Sometimes I get R20 and sometimes nothing at all. I had regular customers for 10, 12 years. They’ll phone or message and ask how am I, how’s the baby, but they don’t want to come because they’re scared of covid.”
Sameer Patel, her husband, felt the full brunt of the lockdown as his one-year-old business venture went up in smoke. He had to completely close down his newly established curtain shops in Ormonde and Boksburg. The word “tension” was uttered frequently, and his face crumpled when asked about his shops. Both he and his wife struggled with sleeping and eating because of the stress over the future of their businesses.
“It’s a terrible feeling. I can’t sleep,” he said as his face turned red, sweat streamed down his forehead and hisfists clenched.
Terrified that her shop could close too, and with the burden of owing thousands in accumulating rent,Samim said, “Some of the nights I couldn’t even sleep. I didn’t know what was going to happen. There’s food on the table, but you can’t eat because you’re stressing. Until today, days are like that.”
Sameer was reluctant to speak about the loss, but the little he did say caused water to well up in the bottom of his eyes. Fighting to hold back his tears as they threatened to fall, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it because it’s really stressing me. I was opening a big business and bought a truck for it, but it didn’t work just because of the lockdown. I sold all the things under cost, so it’s actually costing me more than R500 000.” His employees were paid with whatever he had left, and went back to previous work.
The lockdown affected the economy immensely as South Africa’s GDP contracted by 51% in quarter two.The government, to minimise the impact of covid-19, offered relief to businesses in the form of the Debt Relief Fund and the Unemployment Insurance Fund (UIF). A special covid-19 social relief of distress grant of R350 a month was also set up for those that lost employment.
The Debt Relief Fund was aimed at small businesses that experienced financial difficulties during the lockdown. The requirements, however, automatically excluded this group as businesses had to be 100% owned by South African citizens, at least 70% of the employees had to be South African nationals and they had to be tax-compliant and registered with SARS. Sameer and Samim, armed with only work permits, were not eligible for this fund.
The many hoops to jump through
Many shopslocated in one of Fordsburg’s main attractions, the Oriental Plaza, saw the same fate as the lockdown took the familiar overcrowding of shoppers away. Built in the 1970s as a shopping centre for Indian traders,because of its low prices itbecame a haven for bargain hunters where finding space to even walk, was difficult.Bursting with a multitude of shops, the Plaza sells curtains, kitchenware, colourful fabrics and traditional Indian clothes.
Opposite the now strangely deserted parking lot of the Plaza stands a small barbershop, which can house only three customers at a time. Outside the barbershop sits 46-year-old Indian national Imtiyaz Shaik, with his single employee standing in the doorway with the same look of anticipation and desperation as Samim.
Malawian national, Etoo Kuiuwangu, learnt how to make all types of Indian cuisine when he came to South Africa in 2014 in the hopes that he could build his repertoire of skills and always be employable. He prepares the different curries, biryanis, butter chicken and mixes and rolls out the roti dough at Sheth’s Chinal Mall restaurant. Photo: Zainab Patel.
The lockdown led to a 26% increase in food insecurity and hunger, due to income shocks and job losses. The Nids-Cram survey found that 47% of respondents reported that their households ran out of money to buy food in April 2020.
Shaik has three children, and worry occupied his days as he experienced difficulty buying groceries, paying school fees and the uncertainty that still surrounds his barbershop. But with the help of his friends and clients bringing him groceries during that time, he was able to get by.
The UIF provided funds to registered companies unable to pay their employees. This meant that foreign nationals who were not legally documented or legally employed were not eligible to receive this. As of October 27, R1.6 billion has been paid to declared foreign nationals, but there are still delays, with them receiving their payments much later than their South African counterparts. The reasoning provided by the UIF was that its system uses ID numbers and does not recognise passport numbers, as well as extra verification processes required for foreign nationals.
Instructions on how to apply for government relief, and the rules pertaining to who could receive it, caused confusion among some foreign nationals. Shaik explained, “The government announced that they want to help, but actually we don’t know the process and rules of going to government for help. They said they were going to give you a link to go through. But I try, I try, how many times I try to get through the link, but I can’t get it right.”
The China Mall in Crown Mines, like the Plaza, is perfectlydesigned for foreigners as it allows shop owners to conduct business under the radar with many who do not pay tax. Bordered by large containers of goods, China Mall is famous for its cheap products ranging from clothes and bridal wear to toys, homeware and electronics. It is also where traders come to buy in bulk, with the cheap wholesale prices.
China Mall has been largely affected by the pandemic due to the stigma surrounding the mall and Chinese nationals. Finding parking was abnormally easy when visiting this bargain-filled mall,which has now seen an influx of PPE and infrared thermometers occupying several shops. Many shops that it previously housed are non-existent due to the loss of customers and the high rentals, ranging from R20 000 to R90 000, depending on size. This is due to the intense competition in the mall and the high volumes of passing trade, where whoever offers to pay more rent gets the space.
Located west of the mall is a food court owned mainly by foreign nationals and which shut down in February, before the lockdown, because of that stigma. One of the businesses was Anish Sheth’sfast food restaurant, which left him and his employees without a salary for four months. This is because he pays his employees on a per day basis,as most of his employees are undocumented and therefore do not want to be on the employees register. This automatically excludes them from the UIF, Debt Relief Fund and R350 grant.
UNDESA estimates there are 100 000 Malawian and 376 668 Mozambican migrant workers in South Africa, driven by the prospect of better jobsand escaping the poverty of their home countries. EtooKuiuwangu, an undocumented Malawian national, and MalemuBaleaa, an undocumented Mozambican national, work for Sheth making all types of Indian food in an aroma-filled, tiny corner next to the main kitchen of the restaurant.
“It’s very difficult, because when you don’t have any money it’s fucked up“
Mozambican national, Malemu Baleaa, starts the fire to make the naan (flatbread) for the day. He works non-stop for nine hours from Monday to Sunday making rotis, chicken tikka, parathas and naan in this tiny green corner where him and Kuiuwangu prepare the food at the restaurant. Photo: Zainab Patel
Kuiuwanga spoke of receiving no money during this time. “It’s very difficult, because when you don’t have any money it’s fucked up. There’s not even supper, sometimes.” He had to lend from people to try and look after his wife and two-year-old son.
Baleaa, who has been working there for 13 years, expressed the same, with having to look after three children. “During the lockdown I took credit from someone. Now I’m working so I can pay them. It’s a little bit better now, but it’s not yet 100%.”
“I just came to work because I don’t have any choice. I’m going to do what? Nothing“
The financial impact of those months of complete shutdown, according to Sheth, resulted in a loss of approximately R800 000. “Now, as a business, it’s not like before because people are still scared to come to the restaurant, especially China Mall.” He explained that they are not making their turnover, which was previously about R300 000 a month. With an average loss of R100 000, their turnover now ranges from R180 000 to R190 000.
Given their undocumented status, Kuiuwanga was stoic about his non-payment during that time, but displayed a tinge of anger when speaking about it. “I’m working here for five years, but I never get anything. So when he [Sheth] opened in May, I just came to work because I don’t have any choice. I’m going to do what? Nothing.” He is using the money that he is making now to slowly pay back the loan he took out.
Some business owners, like Samim and Shaik, await the new year in hopes that it will return to normal, using what little income they make now. Sheth extended his restaurant hours from nine hours to 12. “Recovery is nothing. Still we are struggling and battling with reversing all of that [the financial impact of the lockdown].”
Others, like Sameer, have sought employment elsewhere. He went from owning his own curtain shops to working in someone else’s curtain shop: “You have to do anything, anyhow, because if you have a family you can’t just sit with your hands, you have to do something to get food for your family and everything else.”
In contrast to the avenue’s larger businesses, its informal economy represents a different kind of entrepreneur who works on the pavement, looking desperately at the fast-moving traffic as a means to glean a livelihood.
Among the three hair-cutting stations in the shade of large trees in front of the Balfour Alexandra Football Club, a barber wearing a Highlands Park football jersey and yellow MTN cap wields a buzzing razor with skill as he shaves a customer’s head.
A few minutes later, Chucks Odigbo lifts a shard of mirror from a table stocked with a bottle of methylated spirits, combs, oil and razors that run on a large rechargeable battery.
Regular customer Sipho Mhlangu looks into the mirror to appraise his bald head and neatly clipped moustache. He blows a kiss in the air and exclaims: “This guy is cutting like mwah!”
Odigbo, who used to play for the nearby Balfour Park Football Club, has spent the past 16 years surviving as a barber on the pavement of Louis Botha Avenue in Johannesburg.
The barber, who is from Nigeria, grooms men and women and charges customers between R20 and R40, depending on the style of the cut and the labour involved.
“Because of the difficulty in this modern time, we make it so that the price will not push you away from looking the way you want to look,” says Odigbo.
Although it might seem strange that Odigbo positions his business so close to other barbers, he explains that they gather together to create competition.
“When we are three or four, it makes me take my business seriously,” he says.
Odigbo is one of many informal traders who rely on the pedestrian traffic of Louis Botha for their means of survival.
LEFT: Chucks Odigbo is a barber who makes his living on the pavement of Louis Botha Avenue. He shares insight on his craft and his customers explain why they choose to come to him over a formal salon. Video: Ortal Hadad
Scraping for money as an underdog of the economy
According to a Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) 2017 survey of employers and the self-employed, such informal traders are classified as workers not registered for tax, who generally work in small enterprises. They include street traders who are individuals that sell goods or services on a public road, as stated in City of Johannesburg Metropolitan Municipality street-trading bylaws.
Dave Fisher, city councillor for Ward 74, which covers Orchards, Highlands North and Bramley, says that with the change of political dispensation he has noticed more informal traders on Louis Botha Avenue.
“In apartheid days it was a white street,” says Fisher. “If you did not have a [permit in your] passbook, you were not allowed to be there.”
He emphasises that the sector is still relevant, in contrast to the wealthier suburbs that surround the 9,2km-long street.
“They might not make a contribution to the fiscus of the country, but those people are putting food on tables, they are educating children, they are clothing children,” he says.
Outside a storage unit, Cash 4 Scrap, a 40-year-old man sits on the pavement. He is wearing a crumpled grey and white striped shirt and cream trousers smeared with grease marks from the morning’s work. Amid the smells of metal and oil, mobile mechanic Justice Motaung has his ears tuned to the blasting hooters of the cars and combis speeding past on the busy street.
“If people are driving their own cars and they won’t start, then sometimes I can help them and get something in return from them,” says Motaung.
LEFT: Mobile mechanic Justice Motaung tries to save money by searching for tools and parts at Cash 4 Scrap. Photo: Ortal Hadad
He relies on Louis Botha’s notorious motor traffic to provide his client base, although many of his customers, from areas including Orange Grove, Norwood and Houghton, hail from his 12 years of employment at an alarm-fitting car company, Car Fanatics.
Since the company closed down four years ago, Motaung has been working on the street, practising the trade he learned at home in the Free State from his grandfather and father, both of whom were mechanics.
Motaung says he found himself attracted to Louis Botha Avenue in 2004 by its bustle, after he had failed to find work in the Free State.
Considering that he has no car, customers or friends often have to fetch him from the scrapyard for his services.
Depending on the amount of labour and what car parts he must buy, Motaung’s fees vary, but his base charge is R350 or more.
“I do not have the money to buy myself the tools,” says the mechanic. “If I am short of some tools, I have to borrow from the 24/7 pawn shop.”
While Motaung makes about R3 500 to R4 000 a month, he is not able to save because his money goes to the running costs of his business, rent for his cottage room and his 13-year-old daughter, who stays with his ex-wife in the Free State.
Nonetheless, Motaung earns more than Stats SA’s 2019 lower-boundary poverty line of R810, which measures the income needed for minimum daily food and some household items.
Small incomes lead to savvy saving
Back at Balfour Park, Odigbo earns roughly the same as Motaung at about R4 000 a month. Almost two thirds of this goes towards renting a room in Kew as well as business costs that include charging his battery daily and buying methylated spirits every two to three days and oil for his equipment once a month. Since he also supports a 15-year-old daughter, Odigbo is lucky if he can save R500 a month. He has learned to strategise his spending based on his daily profit.
“If I need to buy bread today and I know it will last me three days, then I will buy the bread today and tomorrow I will buy sugar,” says the barber.
In Orange Grove a shoe repairman, Etward Lenkwale, is no different in being savvy with his money.
Lenkwale works on the parking lot of a closed-down art gallery, The PurpleDragonfly, where his only advertisement is a white sign reading “Shoe repairs done here”, and his name and contact number. Those who require his services will find him, from Monday to Saturday, sitting beside lilac walls that are bedecked with wild ivy. A mound of footwear including broken sandals, takkies and a pair of golf shoes is piled up at his feet while he works on fixing a grey and orange boot.
Besides the R500 that Lenkwale gives to his family, the rest of his R4 000-R5 000 monthly income goes on expenses such as 250MB of data for R10 and food throughout the week, including half a loaf of bread for R7.
RIGHT: Etward Lenkwale repairs a boot at his post on the parking lot of The Purple Dragonfly, a shut-down art gallery. Photo: Ortal Hadad
Lenkwale saves on rent because he shares a one-room shack in Protea South, Soweto, with his Aunt Dibuseng Senthebane and his sister, Lineo. He spends R68 on transport and often stays inside the closed art gallery throughout the week to save time.
He charges for repairs according to what needs to be fixed. A foot sole costs R170, whereas a helium sole costs R140. His prices fluctuate because to fix the shoes he has to buy material and tools, including cotton, needles and soles, in town.
ABOVE: The advertising sign that is placed on the wall beside Lenkwale’s working post. Photo: Ortal Hadad
While he was previously employed in Norwood and Soweto, in 2017 Lenkwale chose to come to Louis Botha Avenue and start repairing shoes on his own, with the motivation to earn more money.
“Here I am happy because this work is too much money. In Lesotho there is no money, no nothing,” says the shoe repairer, who was persuaded by his aunt to move to South Africa in 2007.
Like Lenkwale, many migrants have tried to find better means of survival on the swarming street.
Migrant traders: Is the grass greener on the other side?
Odigbo came to South Africa in 2002 “to look for a greener pasture”, but he faced reality. “Then it was like survival of the fittest when you did not have an ID,” says the barber, who resorted to cutting hair when he could not find a job.
In Bramley another Nigerian migrant, Felix Okeke, found himself in burned pastures when his clothing merchandise was looted during the xenophobic attacks in Alexandra in August. Although Okeke still resides in Alexandra, he is now afraid to run his business in the shop that belongs to his brother, Uche.
Instead he sits on a broken, red-upholstered chair alongside what is left of his business: a single overflowing rack and a bag of clothes in front of his brother’s tyre shop on Louis Botha. The over-packed rack and overflowing bag make it difficult to discern each clothing item, however, although a light blue pair of shorts and a grey suit with an H&M label stand out.
Although Okeke has set prices for his clothing, he will give a discount if a customer cannot afford the full price.
“I will tell the customer, those jeans or trousers are R60. They will say they have only R40, and I will sell just to make a living,” he says.
Okeke orders stock twice a month from his cousin, Abuchi, who lives in London. The cost equates to Okeke’s monthly income of R8 000, so he pays his cousin only half so that he has enough money for his own expenses.
Okeke’s rent is R2 500 and he sends R500 to his six-year-old daughter who lives with her mother in Witbank, Mpumalanga. The rest of his money goes to groceries and his account in Nigeria.
He hopes to return to Nigeria in the near future. “I am not happy here; it is not my home,” he says.
On the street’s corner with Short Road, a 46-year-old man has called Louis Botha home since 2013. Amadeus Ncube, who is impossible to miss in his royal blue construction jacket, sits beside a large sheet of wood held up by empty crates. One of the black crates conceals the brown heel lift Ncube wears on his right foot as a result of being born with one leg shorter than the other. Plastic-wrapped potatoes and tomatoes and bunches of bananas, which Ncube buys from the Johannesburg City Deep market for R1 500 on a weekly basis, lie atop the wooden sheet.
Ncube wants to earn enough to feed his family in Zimbabwe and his wife, Fortunate, who is a domestic worker. Considering he makes a profit of only about R1 000 a month by selling vegetables, however, the former construction worker also relies on carpentry jobs and his wife’s income to get by.
ABOVE: Felix Okeke’s crammed clothing rack on Louis Botha Avenue replaces his shopfront in Alexandra which was looted during xenophobic attacks earlier this year. Photo: Ortal HadadAmadeus Ncube unpacks his boxes of tomatoes in order to put them into plastic bags to sell for the day. Photo: Ortal Hadad
Keeping faith while facing challenges
Aside from struggling to survive on small profits, informal traders risk police raids if they do not adhere to the Johannesburg Metropolitan Municipality’s street trading bylaws. Prohibitions include trading on government property, next to ATMs or in spaces that could block traffic.
Motaung has had tools confiscated and customers’ cars towed away by the Metro Police, because he often works directly on the street, potentially obstructing oncoming vehicles.
Ward councillor Fisher raises environmental concerns. “Oil gets spilled on the road and goes into the water drains, and it clogs up with dust in the sand,” he says. “Part of the challenge is how to preserve the entrepreneurial side, yet provide the right facilities.”
Fisher says the City of Johannesburg has tried to address this by developing centres such as the Alexandra Automotive Hub, where facilities are provided for mechanics.
Odigbo, Okeke and Ncube have all suffered fines and impoundment by Metro Police who allege they are trading in prohibited areas.
Johannesburg Metro Police Department spokesperson Wayne Minnaar says informal traders will not be arrested. Instead, traders’ goods will be confiscated and they will receive receipts indicating what has been taken. To get their goods back, traders have to go to the Metro Police Department and pay a fine of R3 130 for non-perishables or about R1 000 for perishable goods.
“Sometimes we find street traders cross the line by selling illegal goods such as drugs,” says Minnaar. “They will be arrested for possession of the drugs.”
Despite these challenges, the informal workers of Louis Botha Avenue still dream of better days ahead.
“I will leave once I can get together enough money to open a shop,” says Motaung, who has not lost hope of returning to the Free State.
Similarly, Lenkwale gives his sister money to save so that one day he can open his own shoe repair shop.
Odigbo, though, has higher aspirations: “You never know! If one of my clients becomes a president, he will employ me and then I will be working under the presidency,” he says. He grins in the shade of his work station, razor ready, waiting for his next customer.
ABOVE: Sipho Mhlangu peers into a shard of mirror to appraise the work of Chucks Odigbo, a street barber who works on the pavement of Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Ortal Hadad
FEATURED IMAGE: Mobile mechanic checking a vehicle. Photo: Supplied
Informal work is the foundation of any developing area, it provides an avenue for its populace to push back against poverty and deprivation. Melville is no different.
When you arrive on 7th Street in Melville, the veneer of restaurants and bars stand out to all in sight. Boasting roadside cafes and thrift shops, the infamous strip is crowded with hairy hipsters and travelling thrifters, all complementing the niche aesthetic of the area.
Two men stand atop the street, surveying the area predatorily. The first – a tall, inconspicuous man – makes a move towards the adjacent street, into a garage behind a convenience store – disappearing for a couple of minutes. He reappears with wooden beams and begins setting up a makeshift stall outside the Pakistani-owned convenience store.
The second – short and staunch – after greeting a couple of bystanders heads towards the construction site, adding the finishing touches to the makeshift stand. Their work site is set for the day.
Sam Muzumbi, 35, and Shepard Murwisi, 30, are these two men and they are landmarks of 7th, having been there for nearly 10 years. Unbothered and bold, the two have been repairing and making shoes and other items throughout the past decade on Melville’s signature strip.
THE MAKESHIFT STAND: Akin to a spaza shop, the stall displays a number of different leather items – shoes, belts, wallets and bags
Like Yeoville of the late 70s, Melville is a multi-cultural space, where blacks and whites pose for picturesque ‘post-Apartheid South African’ moments – an enigmatically bohemian place, indeed. In recent years it has taken the role of a tourist destination, like Long Street in Cape Town, because of its artsy aesthetic – appealing to travellers pursuing the taste of an authentic Johannesburg outing.
The brother’s store, oddly named Big Fish Art, has profited from this expansion. Their stall is slotted in opposite a vintage thrift shop, that such, makes the brothers a marquee for tourists looking for genuine South African souvenirs. These self-employed Zimbabwean brothers will provide this “genuine” merchandise.
ARTISANS: Sam and Shepard see themselves as artists, with each item having a unique style symbolic of their distinct craftsmanship.
Their story reads as awfully analogous to those of many immigrants who have made the trip to South Africa in search of job opportunities and an overall better standard of living. Sam, the one lesser in length, was the first to make the transition from Harare to Johannesburg, packing his bags and catching a bus south in 2009 seeking greener pastures.
When he arrived in South Africa, unemployed and penniless, he resorted to the same trade he implored in Zimbabwe – fixing shoes. Sam, a cobbler, first learned to repair shoes from his uncles back home.
In Melville this skill would prove helpful as the patrons of the area were thrift-driven hipsters from the surrounding residences, home to mostly University of Johannesburg students, who rather than buying new shoes would prefer to fix their old ones and save the change for more important things.
“They come here to drink, this place for them is about drinking and partying. So they don’t want to waste money on other things like buying new shoes. So they just come to me and I do it for cheap,” Sam says before letting out a cheeky smirk.
These early days were the foundations for the brand’s growth. As his reputation and pocket grew, Sam, also known as Rasta, began pulling in more customers – specifically other workers in the area.
Bartenders, waiters, domestic workers and security guards from the surrounding bars and residences were the sort of customers who would regularly need their shoes repaired because of the nature of their work and the expense of having to buy new ones.
SET-UP: Belts on the left, wallets ordered all in the middle and shoes scattered miscellaneously around the desk-size stand. Their bags hang over a rack facing the road, dangling with a slight silliness.
In need of an extra hand, Sam invited Shepard, his wife’s brother, to South Africa to work with him. Shepard, a cobbler by blood, was the ideal partner for this venture, he was family and his father had been a cobbler too.
The two brothers have since come to represent an indiscernible aspect of Melville’s artsy aesthetic, an army of informal workers looking to capitalize on the demographic of its curb-side coffeehouses and bookshops with handmade products and hands-on services.
The informal sector is often considered as existing outside the economy; its impact viewed in a vacuum compared to the rest of the economy because it escapes the realm of regulation, statistics and taxation, according to Caroline Skinner, senior researcher at the African Research for Cities at the University of Cape Town.
Skinner considers this a “missed opportunity to regularly highlight the quality of work in SA.” Many of the jobs in the informal sector are unrecorded and, therefore, deprived of analysis and study.
BREAK: Sam takes a break during the day, he usually works from 9am to 5pm.
The work of a shoemaker, for example, is a particularly precarious one. Sam and Shepard leave their two-bedroom Auckland Park apartment at 8am on a warm spring Saturday, saddled on a small motorbike with all their tools and material needed for the day.
Most of their shoes are produced in the comfort of their own home; with their own machinery they stich up the products from the leather they purchase from a second-hand warehouse on Plein street in the CBD.
Their arrival in Melville is not met with awaiting customers and eager clients, their spot is bare, unoccupied and expressionless – no employer for them to check in with.
Their task for the first hour is to set out their stall in the same orderly fashion they do every day.
Their days are slow, spent mostly repairing the few shoes available on the day. Sam casually patches up the hole on an old loafer while Shepard sits there observing.
Parked on Coca-Cola crates outside the convenient store, escaping the scorching sun, the two speak about football while evaluating onlookers on the merit of their likelihood to purchase an item. No focus group or market research for them to identify and reach their ideal target market.
They simply assess their clothes, walk and proximity to the stall, working on their gut, before pouncing, “good day ma’am, you see anything you like?”
She walks away, ignoring their pitch, and they return to their seats. This goes on for well over an hour before the first onlooker commits. “These are nice,” a 30-something year old white man says while showing his girlfriend a brown pair of leather farm-style shoes.
Sam switches into salesman mode and starts smothering the couple, “Yes, these will look nice on you, sir. Try them on”. Carefully caressing the man’s ego, Sam works his magic – the kind of sales pitch he’s worked on for years.
A LONG DAY’S WORK: Patrick sits outside a convenient store repairing shoes for Melville residents from 9am to 6pm every day.
The moment has come for Sam to make his move as the Ray-Ban-draped man lowers the size 9, “the shoe is R700, boss. But for you I can give it for R600,” he says with the kind of ‘bargain struck’ demeanour of a true salesman.
It fails, and the man walks away with his girlfriend hand-in-hand to the opposing thrift shop. Sam returns to his seat and Shepard takes the chance to explain the maths behind their pitch.
“I can make these shoes for R250 or R300, then we sell them for a lot of money and we can always make more profit. It’s b-b-b-business, my friend,” he says with a slight stutter airing out the awkwardness which brands him the more reserved of the two.
The course of the day mostly plays out like this, Sam and Shepard share some business tips with me before putting them into practise on unsuspecting passers. Their day comes to an end and besides the few wallets and odd pair of shoes they sell; this Saturday has been a quiet one.
Operational every day besides Sunday, Saturday is usually their most rewarding day. The pair usually make around R2000 on a busy Saturday, when families gather for lunches in Melville’s niche cafes and tourists inspect the hoardings of different thrift and charity stores.
A WORK OF THE HANDS: Patrick reaches through his tools, his coarse hands have been doing this for the past eight years.
Today, the brothers leave with slightly under R1000, the kind of money that makes their 9-5 shifts seem a little shameful. It makes little difference, however, they are neither renting the space they occupy or pay taxes for their income, they simply walk away with it – likely to support their livelihoods and send the rest home to their families in Zimbabwe.
The sunset on Melville’s 7th is especially beautiful, setting just above the steep slopes of this lively street – it is ironically romantic considering all the labour that takes place here. The brothers pack up their store and return its structure to the garage behind the convenience store – disappearing unnoticed, like the sun.
The two hop back on their motorbike and return home, hoping to get a good night’s rest and an early start tomorrow.
Even in the heart of the handsome suburbs of Melville, Sam and Shepard’s livelihood is subject to the realities of a harsh economy and an unreliable demographic. Informal work anywhere in the country is largely unpredictable.
Patrick Nyame, a shrewd and hopeful Ghanaian man, sets up his site a few streets down from the brothers in Melville. He, too, is a cobbler and his work includes stitching, etching and mending shoes.
He has recently expanded his business into producing sandals and other footwear.
He came to South Africa, like Sam and Shepard, seeking a better life. His brother had been the first of his kin to embark on the journey, arriving in 2011 only to discover the sad truth that poverty and depravation were no different here.
Patrick Nyame, a shrewd and hopeful Ghanaian man, sets up his site a few streets down from the brothers in Melville. He, too, is a cobbler and his work includes stitching, etching and mending shoes.
He has recently expanded his business into producing sandals and other footwear.
He came to South Africa, like Sam and Shepard, seeking a better life. His brother had been the first of his kin to embark on the journey, arriving in 2011 only to discover the sad truth that poverty and depravation were no different here.
When Patrick, a cocoa farmer, arrived two years later, pushed by the same optimism, his brother had worked as a cobbler and was now a barber in the dilapidated Brixton centre. He was in an unyielding position to lower Patrick’s expectations, quickly helping his younger brother to set up as a cobbler in the area.
“There’s too many jobs here, that’s what everyone says. But when you get here you have to make a plan. You spend all your money coming here, so when I arrived I had no money, no job,” Patrick says while astutely focusing on removing the grip of a struggling sandal.
With a short hand knife, he picks the stitching off the sandal one by one before continuing, “And you can’t be the guy with nothing or else everyone will laugh at you, so I made a plan.”
Patrick’s livelihood wholeheartedly depends on his clientele and if they are not in need of his work he can go home with less than R100 a day compared to his usual R300 income. His dependency on his customers is a point of despair for the 53-year-old.
“If I find something else, I’ll leave this”. He drops the sandal and reaches out for a brown stiletto, rubbing its 10-centimetre sole before considering his next thought. “At the end of the day, if people don’t bring shoes then there’s nothing for me. It’s like that, one day can be good then tomorrow there’s nothing.”
The work of an informal worker like a shoemaker, thus, is irregular. The issue with informal work remains its vulnerability, with a number of informal start-ups closing within six months of their establishment, according to Skinner.
Sam and Shepard, like Patrick, have passed the test of time and are considering ways to expand their business in the Melville area. The introduction of their own merchandise into their work was an especially inspiring move for their business.
Rather than simply repairing shoes, the two brothers are creating their own signature merchandise with a production line they are in full control over, ensuring their stay in Melville is extended.
The journey to making their own products has been a long one but now it has brought some reward. Luka Epstein, 18, has observed the store’s growth in recent years and has purchased a few items in the past.
The web developer, who has lived in Melville for the past 10 years, says, “I always check on their stuff. They are putting in effort to make a life for themselves. It brings this bourgeois area to the level of the people.”
The thrift shop, the Moral Kiosk, opposite their stall has helped them reach a new and younger clientele. The two stores share an appreciation for one another, working to develop a deeper connection within Melville’s thrift community.
“They have a very unique approach, it’s craftsmanship and fashion. I think it’s very dope. A lot of people come to Melville looking for a vintage aesthetic rather than going to a store I mean. So this is more authentic,” says Lwando Gwili, an employee at the Moral Kiosk.
The thrift store sells secondhand clothing and footwear as well offering vinyl and other antique items. The nappy-haired twenty-five-year-old described the bond between their store and the brother’s one while scratching his patchy beard, “We complement each other. We have vintage clothing and they have vintage accessories. It just works well.”
Dwellers of Melville have, too, taken an appreciation for the work of Sam and Shepard. Ezekiel Mofokwane, 45, has been jogging through the Melville area for over 10 years and has developed an admiration for the informal work in the area.
“This place is fine and safe. These guys make quality stuff and it’s affordable, so they give people options. Plus, its original and authentic stuff that you don’t find in other places,” Mofokwane says while sneaking a break in on his weekly jog.
Melville in all its allure and antiquity is made up of individuals like Sam, Shepard and Patrick. Their labour is the heartbeat behind the vibrant suburb – they are the worker bees of this buzzing hive.
They go unnoticed and are only around when there’s work to be done. Modest and humble, they are the indiscernible army of Melville.
FEATURED IMAGE: A variety of belts on display at a trader’s site. Photo: Tshegofatso Mokgabudi.
In-depth 2015: Mayfair Mayfair Joburg is a project of the full-time Wits Journalism Honours programme. At the end of the year students explore a selected topic in depth. They roam a geographic region in Johannesburg, digging for dirt or gold. They strive to craft...
The Cape Malay population of Mayfair may be small, but they carry in their heritage a strong sense of community in everything they do. The bond they share is defined not by geographical location, but by a past with distinct traditions of culture and faith. Who are they, where do they hail from, and what does the future hold for them?
The smell of baked dough whirls in the air around the corner from Shoneez Confectioners. You can’t trace it immediately if you’re walking or driving up St Elmos Street in Mayfair, Johannesburg, but there is a freshness in the air that strikes you in passing and ignites your curiosity.
As you get closer, you see the big windows with the name of the bakery. Well-lit, with turquoise and green graphics, the bakery is a bright light amid the dreary browns of the block. Situated between a spice shop and a barber, the bakery glows with the promise of a new relationship with Cape Malay cakes as opposed to just buying what you need and leaving.
Recording all the recipes
Behind the counter of Shoneez Confectioners stands the owner, Shoneez Moor. Her accent is distinct from the twang of the South African Indian customers she serves every day. You can tell she is Malay from the way she says “shukr” and “alhamdulillah”, Islamic phrases of praise to God. Her dress sense is also distinct from the many women who come into the store wearing hijabs, a scarf wrapped around the face which fully covers the hair, and abayas, an Islamic dress which covers the body.
Moor is wearing fashionable sneakers, track pants, a sports T-shirt and a gold necklace with her name on it. She is a self-made woman.
Five customers wait inside the bakery to pay for their goods from the single cashier. The space brings out the colours of the cakes, giving each an appeal of its own. Red cakes covered in coconut, golden chocolate chip cookies, cream-coloured caramel twisted doughnuts, shiny chocolate-covered, dark brown brownies. All are observed and analysed before a choice is made.
One of the customers grabs a bag of rolls from the back section of the bakery. As she waits to pay for her purchase, her eye falls on the scones. She calls someone to assist her. A few minutes later, she leaves with her rolls, her scones, and some caramel sticks and doughnuts. The look on her face says: “I couldn’t help myself.”
Moor’s cakes are a typical part of the Cape Malay experience, a combination of welcoming warmth, exceptionally well-prepared food and a belief in something unconventional.
Moor never set out to bake. Her success lies in pure self-determination and hard work. “I run a tight ship,” she says, speaking about her business ethic. Her baking comes from the skills she learnt from her mother as a child growing up in Bosmont, west of Johannesburg.
She says she used to write all the recipes down in a book as she was growing up, and is now using them as a catalyst for her success. She points at a batch of freshly baked butter biscuits. “This is gadat biscuits,” she says.
A gadat biscuit is no different from any other butter biscuit except that it is made with the intention of being served at gadat, a Cape Malay form of celebration that involves praying in a group, as a community.
Traditionally young girls would record all their mother’s recipes in a notebook . Here Faieza shows recipes for the treats served at Shoneez’s bakery. Treats like bollas and koeksisters and gadat biscuits (butter biscuits) which are authentically Malay dishes that form part of the Malay heritage. Photo: Rafieka Williams
The Cape Malay people of Mayfair are, within and without, trying to carve their own space as a community with strong ties to Cape Town. They are caught between thriving in their own personal lives, and having to assimilate to more dominant cultures in the area. Although they are few, they have found ways to stay true to their own despite being different; using their culture to their benefit.
Connections to Malaysia and Indonesia
Pragna Rugunanan, a sociologist at the University of Johannesburg, says research on Cape Malay people in Mayfair is rare because “the community is hard to access”. She suspects that one of the reasons that Cape Malay people and other immigrants move into this community is because Mayfair and Fordsburg have strong Islamic influences, with the variety of mosques established by residents who came here after land was made available to them by the government.
Farouk Achmat was born and bred in District Six, once the heart of Cape Town, where the ancestry of the Cape Malay identity was cultivated. Before the area was demolished under apartheid law, the races intermingled freely. Malay people had a strong influence on the Afrikaans language, the third most-spoken language in South Africa next to isiZulu and isiXhosa. Today, you will find that many Malay people still speak Afrikaans as a first language.
Under the apartheid government Malay people were classified as such because there were differing cultural differences to Indian and coloured people. Most Malay people are Muslim and follow the Islamic faith which forms a part of their identity that distinguishes them from other races and cultures. Photo: Rafieka Williams
Although Achmat makes the distinction between being coloured and being Cape Malay, no Malay person can trace their exact connections to Malaysia or Indonesia. From the original slaves and political exiles, such as Sheikh Yusuf and Tuan Guru, who first brought Islam to South Africa and spread it, the Malay people adapted to new ways of life at the southern tip of the continent. For this reason, Achmat believes there is a cultural difference to being Cape Malay that goes beyond race.
In Cape Malay culture, Islam is intertwined with traditions and cultural practices. Achmat moved to Mayfair in 2000, to deepen his understanding of his religion. He says that as a Cape Malay you’re considered to be a “slams”, a derogatory term used for Cape Malay people within the Islamic faith. He explains that Cape Malay people know their religion on a communal basis but the feeling of community is lost in Mayfair beyond the idea of sharing the same religion.
According to Achmat, the traditional practices of Malay people are frowned upon by many of the South African Indians in Mayfair. “They see it as bid’ah,” he says. Bid’ah in the Islamic faith is considered to be reprehensible innovations. These are new ways of doing things that are considered to be against Islamic scripture. But Achmat says “this is the way we grew up” and that it cannot be changed.
Faieza Shaktar of 6th Avenue, Mayfair, speaks proudly of her Cape Malay heritage. In her home she wears what is referred to as an “onnerkappie”, a small, material head covering worn by Muslim women that covers all your hair, usually worn as an alternative to the full scarf. In Cape Town, it’s common to see women wearing one of these head coverings.
Shaktar speaks Afrikaans with fire, often running out of breath, going from one topic to the next. What starts out as a quick visit, turns into a full day, just talking. Words like “kanallah” (please), “tramakassie” (thank you), “wallahi” (I swear), and “boeta” (big brother) are second nature to her, but if you don’t know Cape Malay people, you would be lost as to their meaning.
Faieza Shaktar demonstrates the traditional wear that Malay women would hand sew and embroider on their own for celebrations such as gadats and for madressah (Muslim school). She still preserves and holds onto these garments that she was raised in so she can remember the days when Malay culture was thriving in Fietas, Johannesburg. Today young Malay people just buy abayas. Photo: Rafieka Williams
Shaktar tells of working for an Indian man once. “Hier vra hy vir my, ‘why don’t you wear your abaya?’ toe se ek Do I wear abaya for you?” Shaktar says that as a Muslim this upset her. The way she understands her religion is not to show people in her attire that she is Muslim, but in the way that she treats people.
Wherever Shaktar goes, whether it be to mosque, the shops or just outside her door, she always has conversations with the people around her. For Shaktar, talking to people and learning about them is an important character trait. She says that this warmth that she expresses towards people is something that she was taught growing up, the way her grandmother used to send food to her neighbours when it was labarang, a Malay term for the Muslim festival of Eid.
“She used to make such a big pot of biryani so that her Christian friend auntie Carol and auntie die ene moet a bak kry. We used to be delivery boys, kassam. One day my granny said ‘you know this woman, I send her every year, I send her biscuits, food, cake, whatever, and every year for Christmas she sends me a bowl of peanuts’.” She laughs hysterically at her memories. Her grandmother continued sending and giving. “It doesn’t matter who you are, give that person, and that person. It’s my neighbour, you know.”
Integration issues in Mayfair
In Malay culture, your neighbour is an imperative part of your culture, because neighbourliness builds community. Traditionally, Cape Malay people would bake and exchange treats during Ramadan, a norm that is still practised in Cape Town and the Bosmont area in Johannesburg. In Mayfair, Shaktar says, this doesn’t happen because South African Indians don’t do it, but this doesn’t deter her. She still sends goods to her Indian neighbours. “I feel good in showing them that this is how we do it, and I didn’t make what they eat, I made onse doughnuts, ek het onse banana puris gemaak, things that I came with from my grandma.”
A few streets from Moor’s bakery, at 94 St. Bride Avenue, live Gabier and Somaya Davids. It’s Saturday and they’re having guests over, just as they did on Friday and Thursday. Having people over at their house is a regular occurrence. You can hear the camaraderie as you stand outside their gate. Today, the guests are Faldelah and Farouk Dorsen, friends of the Davids for almost 20 years.
Faldelah also wears an onnerkappie. Her Cape Malay accent is high-pitched and she speaks so fast that her words are seemingly attached to each other. Farouk wears a kufi cap, an Islamic skull cap for men. They met in the first few months the Davids moved here and are still having lunches together.
“Although we live in this Indian community, and although we know everybody here in this community, you will find that our closest friends are Malays from Cape Town,” says Gabier.
When the Davids moved here, they found it extremely difficult adjusting to the secluded nature of Mayfair and Mayfair West, compared to what they know as Malays. There is rarely anyone walking in the streets unless they’re going somewhere, no conversations between neighbours outside their gates, and no children playing. Even though there are many mosques, they are not regularly packed on a Friday for prayer, unless it is Eid.
Gabier explains that this was a challenging environment to live in because it was different to the communal aspects they were familiar with as Malays, whether from Cape Town or Johannesburg. The Davids decided that if they weren’t going to get their culture in Mayfair, they would bring their culture there. They have regular gatherings with other Cape Malays, where they practise traditions they are used to.
“We’re very traditional and our forefathers used to do gadats at any opportunities we had, birthdays, weddings, to congregate. And having that it’s almost like you stick with your own kind,” says Gabier. “We understand the tradition, we speak the same language, we converse in Afrikaans, we like games like dominoes.”
Heritage and the future
But the Davids don’t think that their children will continue with the traditions in the ways they did. “Everything is about technology now,” says Gabier. He fears that all traces of their Cape Malay heritage will become a thing of the past, just like the memories of faraway District Six and nearby Fietas.
And yet, the threads of the community continue to weave their way into the future. Back at the bakery, Nawaal Schroeder, a 20-year-old Wits student, is packing away cakes behind one of the counters. She is clothed in an abaya and a hijab and an apron. Schroeder studies occupational therapy as a full-time student and works at the bakery on weekends.
She has a welcoming and friendly demeanour, greeting customers with a smile, the kind of smile that you emulate in your eyes. “It’s very funny because a lot of people think I’m Indian and I don’t even look Indian,” she laughs heartily. She says although there are a noticeable amount of coloured people at Wits, Malay people are rare. Schroeder makes the distinction between South African Indian Muslims and her own experience of being Malay, “They don’t know about any of the cultural stuff that we do,” she says.
Faieza Shaktar holds an image of herself and her brother when they were younger. The picture shows the style of clothing that Malay people would wear during the 1970s. These were mostly formal suits and dresses with the kufi cap and dresses that covered the knees. Photo: Rafieka Williams
Schroeder recognises that some of her young Malay cousins have difficulties staying in touch with their culture because of outside influences. “It’s sad that a lot of them are trying to become Indian or white or like these hip-hop celebrities,” says Schroeder. She adds that her mom raised her to be proud of her Malay heritage and not to be embarrassed.
“It forms a very strong part of my identity. It’s unique because we don’t have the same practices that the South African Indians have,” says Schroeder. For her, “Being Malay has deep-rooted influences on the South African heritage as a whole.”
And, like the rest of the South African youth, Schroeder knows that times are changing. With her strong ties to her culture, she still believes in progress and moving forward. Schroeder says that when she one day has kids “it would be good to merge the two”, meaning the Malay traditional world and the modern world.
“Don’t modernise it too much where you lose the essence of the culture,” she says as if to remember an age-old truth. Schroeder goes back to packing the caramelised koeksisters and decorated lamingtons onto a tray and the bakery seems more welcoming when she is in it. As she works she carries a certainty in her expression, the bakery is home for her. Not home the way we understand it but home in that there is a sense of belonging here in Moor’s bakery, with the modern-day twist on traditional cakes and the smell of new and old coming together to affirm what is their own.
Schroeder represents a bright future for Malay culture in Johannesburg, knowing where she comes from and paving a way to merge her tradition with the modern world. One could almost say the future is as bright as the blaring light coming from the bakery as it lights up the dreary brown building it forms part of.
FEATURED IMAGE: Faieza Shaktar demonstrates the traditional wear that Malay women would hand sew and embroider on their own for celebrations such as gadats and for madressah (Muslim school). She still preserves and holds onto these garments that she was raised in so she can remember the days when Malay culture was thriving in Fietas, Johannesburg. Today young Malay people just buy abayas. Photo: Rafieka Williams
Once it was the crown jewel of movie culture in Fordsburg. Today it has been born again as an icon of a different kind. This is the story of the Majestic, the old, former movie house that becomes a lively, rousing church on Sundays.
The young women walk in and out of the service, to attend to needy babies who have had enough of lying in swaying arms. It’s hot and humid in the church of the Jabulani Ministeries in Fordsburg, Johannesburg, but the fans stationed in front of the stage keep the congregation cool.
Joylyn Bismark and her baby during the church service. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
“A ke so mo bone o tswanang le yena, che che che!” they sing, their voices soaring in the swoop of joy that gives the church its name. “I haven’t seen anyone like Him, no, no, no!” The men of the church band, in their Sunday suits with their neatly combed hair, drive the rhythm on drums, bass and guitar.
The lead singer, Theo Mjeza, wears a burgundy suit with a crisp white shirt. He carries the vocals and the get-down dance moves with his backup singers. Mjeza is unashamedly “flexy” and the trio backing him up, two women and one man, jam along with the groove.
Theo Mjeza in the groove of things as he sings lead for the opening song at the Jabulani Ministries’ Sunday service held at the Majestic cinema. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
The beat has a Nigerian flavour and the thump of the drums have the congregation worked up in a sweat. After Mjeza’s intro comes an older woman in a yellow and black two-piece suit, to sing the deep and spirit-moving worship song, I Give Myself to You.
The congregation is moved by the Holy Spirit. The woes of the week, brought to the Sunday service, trickle from eyes shut tight in emotion and anguish. Their arms flail in the air, to the chorus of “Amen!” They cry and they sigh to the hymn that recognises all of their pain.
Tears can’t be held back as a woman sings the words ‘I give myself to you’. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Every Sunday, the Jabulani Ministries church, led by Pastor Mark Bismark, breathes new life into the Majestic on Central Road, once the grandest and most popular movie house in Fordsburg.
Now it has been born again as a place of worship, its 800 seats filled only about a quarter of the way with young and old, mostly coloured people who come to sing songs of praise and listen to the sermon.
The atmosphere is far from orthodox as the pastor preaches of his desire to merge the old and the new, the young and the old, by getting the youth of the church more involved in its activities. The pastor’s sermon is full of hope, “Jabulani Ministries is ready to grow, amen! We gonna teach you today, moral intelligence!”
With its famous yellow marquee, the Majestic still stands as a landmark, more of an historical monument than a movie house. The old blue seats with their yellow pillow-stuffing gaping at the rips, and the faded green and brown curtains hung above a square white screen, are all that is left of what was once a place of dreams for black, coloured and Indian movie lovers during apartheid.
Nowadays, it is the churchgoers who redeem the cinema from complete desolation. In its decay and abandonment, it seemed the cinema would not be a home to anyone any longer, but like a phoenix from the ashes, the Majestic lived up to its name and was born again.
The Sunday service lasts three hours, with an additional 30 minutes of “African time” to accommodate the moving of the spirit. Pastor Mark, with his medium-long, grey-black hair combed to the back, says his church has been running its services at the Majestic for the past four years. He too is a musician, a drummer and bass guitarist, but his voice, loud and booming, is his golden instrument.
Playing the guitar. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
The pastor, who grew up in Zimbabwe, the son of a railway worker, says he played in the “kingdom of darkness for about 15 years” and then decided to start the ministry before coming to the Majestic, his current kingdom of light.
It changes lives too, as I learn when I meet Godfrey, a former street kid, who was taken in by the church, fed and clothed, and now works as a car guard outside the cinema.
Close to 60 years old, the Majestic has weathered the waves of change which are frequent to many suburbs in Johannesburg, especially in the transition from apartheid to democracy.
But the Majestic refuses to die, like an old king who still wears his robes. And it still has many years of majesty left, thanks to a 99-year lease from the government to a local family who are not allowed to change the structure but may lend it out to those who need it. As the pastor says, “It’s a heritage site. We haven’t changed anything.”
Pastor Mark Bismark calls all the young people to the front to say a blessing for them for their upcoming end-of-year exams. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Fordsburg, like nearby Sophiatown, was a magically alive “grey area” in the early days of apartheid. Not because the government of the day turned a blind eye to its social mix, but because much of the nitty-gritty on ownership of property had reached a standstill in court.
At the back of the Majestic, after the service, the cries of children running and playing echo up and down the aisles. A Muslim crèche is run at the back of the Majestic and children from the church occasionally come in to practise plays, poetry and song. Pastor Mark calls the Majestic a “white elephant”, but despite its neglected state, it stands as the only cinema in Fordsburg that has not been transformed into a business.
Just a short walk away from the Majestic, a giant sign, bright red and cursive, proclaims the site of the Avalon, another cinema from the glory days of Fordsburg’s movie culture. But the Avalon chose not the sanctified road like its sister, and fell instead into the abyss of guns and samurai swords.
Outside the Avalon cinema in Fordsburg today. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Mohamed Dokrat, owner of the Avalon, saw fit to replace the space with hunting uniforms, lethal pocket knives, arms and ammunition. “I am in full support of the right of people to arm themselves,” he says. “We’re talking about a self-defence point of view, people want to arm themselves and rightfully so. It’s not guns that kill people, it’s people that kill people. If the person behind the weapon is an evil person or is mentally unstable, we’ve got a problem.”
While the Majestic calls to the Lord, the Avalon puts its faith in arms and ammunition
Today the Avalon is like a shell without a yolk, although Dokrat did decide to keep the famous Avalon sign. He was once offered R60 000 for the sign, but he refused. “I told him no,” Dokrat laughs. “We wanted to preserve and keep the sign.”
While the Majestic calls to the Lord, the Avalon puts its faith in arms and ammunition. And though Jabulani Ministries remains an island of Christianity in a sea of Islamic faith, everyone lives together in the same community, guns blazing or not.
Next door to the Avalon is the Kentucky Milk Bar, a takeaway store which has been in existence for 50 years and has been witness to the glory and death days of cinema in Fordsburg. Adam Mohamed, owner of the store, remembers his happy childhood in Fordsburg.
“It was a vibe,” he says, his eyes dancing in their sockets at the memory, “and it was the most safest place in the world to be. The beauty part is that people had no money, but the love they had for each other was amazing.”
As we chat, Adam says that I shouldn’t forget him when I’m a “big shot journalist”. He says his neighbour Dokrat could tell me lots of amazing things, and at this Dokrat waves his hand in embarrassment, brushing the comment away.
The good old days at the Majestic
Farhaad Hafajee, who now lives in Cape Town, grew up in the suburb of Lenasia, established as an Indian group area during apartheid. He remembers “a young life without responsibilities”, and says travelling to Fordsburg was filled with variety. They either travelled with his dad’s friend, who worked at the Oriental Plaza, or with the bus, or by hitchhiking.
“It was not only about the movies but it was the whole experience,” says Hafajee. “Walking around the Plaza in the mornings, walking around Fordsburg, peeking into the shop windows looking at the latest fashions, meeting friends for lunch at Akhals.” Everyone in Fordsburg knows Akhals, the legendary takeaway known more formally as Akhalwayas.
Masala chip rolls dripping with sauce, salt and vinegar crisps, Coca-Cola, cartoons and Western movies. Those were the days at the good old Majestic.
An attempt to bring back those days and revive cinema in Fordsburg proved partially successful in 2011. The Fordsburg Film Festival was to be the stepping stone to greater things, a renaissance, a history repeated, but unfortunately that particular film reel had run its credits a long time ago.
The festival came and went in one year only. Zwelethu Radebe, a director at Velocity Films who studied at AFDA, the South African School of Motion Picture Medium and Live Performance, made his debut as a director at the festival, when he presented his documentary Memoirs of Injustice.
“The main focus was that I wanted to know what the involvement of Indian people was during apartheid,” he says. Radebe remembers how nervous he was that evening, worried about how the people of Fordsburg would react to the film. Memoirs of Injustice tackled old Fordsburg with its entertainment, gangsters and political activism. It held up a mirror to local personalities, from Fordsburg’s oldest barber to surviving family owner of the landmark fish and chips shop, Solly’s Corner.
Despite Radebe’s fears, the screening went well. Radebe recalls a man approaching him in the bathroom and saying, “What a great film!” Radebe says he was touched that this man went out of his way to deliver a compliment, even if it was in the bathroom.
Now our old king, the Majestic, no longer houses movies, but has been a star in a movie of its own. In 2013, it was used as a set for Material, starring comedian Riaad Moosa as a young man who defies his conservative father’s wishes and takes to the stage as a stand-up comic.
The congregation sing along. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
“Fordsburg was always the only choice,” says Ronnie Apteker, entrepreneur and producer of Material. “There were of course many challenges. Making an indie film on a tight budget means we did not have a lot to spend on locations, so we had to make sure that we really stretched our resources.”
Apteker, who grew up in Johannesburg, remembers the heyday of Fordsburg well, and feels the movie captures its unique spirit. “Material indirectly paid a big tribute to Fordsburg and its soul,” he says. “I know that the Majestic is another source of great pride to the people of Fordsburg. Movies are not screened there anymore, but I think it is due for a revival. We shot the closing scenes of Material in the Majestic and it was a very beautiful affair.” One can almost see the Majestic take a bow at the compliment.
Cinema spaces in Johannesburg were places of societal delight, but their death would be quick and painless. Mohamed, owner of the Kentucky Milk Bar, agrees that it was shopping malls that killed the cinemas in Fordsburg. “When you go to a Ster Kinekor or Nu metro you’re spoilt for choice. In Fordsburg, there’s no variety for people, there’s no security. You walk into a mall you’re secure, you leave your car, you’re not worried about your vehicle, you can walk in and there’s ice-cream, there’s restaurants, you can do shopping.”
With a slow regression into poverty and crime, Fordsburg would lose its glitter, and the glamour represented by the Majestic, the Avalon, and the Lyric, the icons of its culture as a haven for cinema. “Fordsburg was at the cutting edge of black urban culture,” reads the programme for the Fordburg Film Festival in 2011.
Pastor Mark Bismark lays his hand on a young woman’s head as a blessing for her exams. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
But the crowning jewel, the Majestic, lives on, with song and in spirit, every Sunday, as Jabulani Ministeries fills it with worship, praise, and the cries of amen.
At the end of the service Pastor Mark calls the young people to the stage and places his hand on each head, wishing them God’s blessings for the end of year exams.
“We don’t want to lose this place,” the pastor slowly reflects. “If we were not using it, who would be?”
For every Sunday at least, the Majestic remains an old king with a kind heart and open arms.
FEATURED IMAGE: Theo Mjeza in the groove of things as he sings lead for the opening song at the Jabulani Ministries’ Sunday service held at the Majestic cinema. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Somali businesses are well known for an unusual pace when it comes to their business growth and development. Many wonder what their secret is to this growth and even though this community believes that they have none, they are still willing to expand and share their business skills with the rest of the small business community.
OVER THE WINDOW: She sits from 5.30am until 10pm in the evening, hoping and praying that someone will come and buy one or two items. The street is buzzing with similar businesses to hers, but Madina Umar says the money she makes every day is enough. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
“Andazikubabenzanjani, velenjee bona bayaphumelela,” [I don’t know how they do it, but they are very successful”], said Lindelwa Mdanyana “ngingajabulaukwazi pho,” [“I’d love to know, hey”] as she changed seats outside her two-room house, running away from the sun while waiting for her midday customers to come and quench their thirst.
Mdanyana, 40, is a South African businesswoman who is the co-owner of ispoti (an illegal tavern) situated in an informal settlement called Ellias Motsoaledi behind Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital in Soweto.She once owned a spaza shop but said the establishment of Somali businesses in the area killed her shop.
With bigger versions of a typical South African spaza shop but smaller versions of a supermarket, Somali “cash and carry” businesses in South Africa are growing. In all parts of the country, Somali shops are popular for offering goods and services at cheaper rates than most South African shops.
Welcome to Little Mogadishu
Eighth Street in Mayfair, popularly known as “Little Mogadishu”, in the west of Johannesburg, is no different.
From travel agents to barbershops, from cash and carry to clothing shops, success is assured. In 8th Street, where Somali nationals seem to dominate, many of them have flourished as entrepreneurs. Even though their businesses provide similar goods and services, this is considered less of a competition or threat but rather a benefit.
When Mdanyana followed her boyfriend to Johannesburg from the Eastern Cape in 1992, she struggled to find employment in Gauteng. And when she got married in 1994, Mdanyana said that she agreed to stay home and start her business.
When they started their business it was a normal spaza shop where she sold essential household goods. Instead of selling full packets of teabags, she would sell a single teabag for 15 cents, candle lights, paraffin, half a loaf of bread and many other items typically found in a spaza shop. Mdanyana believed she was doing well until 2010 when her business started failing.
Mdanyana described this phase and associates it with “ukufikakwamaKula [the arrival of foreign nationals]” who became her toughest competitors.
She said her competitors’ goods and services were very cheap, so she understood why she started losing customers.
“Bona ilitre ye paraffin yayi yiR4, njeba kum iyi R6,” [“Their litre of paraffin was R4, while I sold it for R6”], she said.
ISPOTI: Mdanyana says she only stocks her alcohol in one fridge because buying in the spaza shop manner (buying in bulk) in this kind of a business is a waste of money and a great loss. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
Mdanyana said she needed something that could sell fast, and in this case it was cold drink and beer. However, even though there’s less competition in the ispoti business environment, it is highly regulated as there are serious consequences for those who sell alcohol without a liquor licence.
[“If the police arrive and you don’t have a licence, they either pour the alcohol on the floor or some of them leave with it, and say they are taking it to the police station” Mdanyana said. “I’d rather have them pour it on the floor, hey.”
‘No secrets hidden in Somali traders’
According to Abidririzak Ali Osman, general secretary of the Somali Community Board South Africa and a member of the Township Business Association South Africa (TBASA), there are “no secrets hidden in Somali traders”. But “their perseverance and persistence is what distinguishes them from other nationals”, including South Africans.
“They have to work hard beyond the limit of their capabilities,” said Osman, “because of their responsibilities.”
In a blog article by Neil Pate, an American business analytics expert, he shares his lived experiences where he goes beyond what is identified by Osman.
Firstly, he said, “immigrants stick together”. Sharing his experiences as an immigrant child who arrived in the United States of America when he was only seven years old, he said:
“One thing that I never forgot is that when my parents immigrated here, other immigrants helped them out.
“From providing free temporary living accommodations to helping a fellow immigrant to find a job, establishing businesses, immigrants help each other succeed,” he added.
Secondly, Pate said, many immigrants who work in foreign countries understand the notion that “It’s easier to save money than it is to earn it”, hence they find ways to save and invest more.
“They are never afraid to ask for discounts, buy in bulk or even on sale.”
Research conducted by the African Centre for Migration & Society (ACMS) states that not many have explored why Somali businesses are prosperous and how they achieve growth at such a rapid pace. But many Somali business traders are willing to share their skills.
The story of Ebrahim Qaxwo
Ebrahim Muhammad Ali, a father of 17 children and owner of Ebrahim Qaxwo (qaxwo means “coffee” in Somali), a convenience shop in Mayfair, Johannesburg, is one of them.
Ebrahim and his brother come from a very poor family in Somalia and never got the opportunity to go to school. However, as soon as he was old enough, Ebrahim joined his older brother in the city of Kismaayo where they opened a panel beating business.
In 1992, during a civil war, the Ali brothers fled Somalia to Tanzania for safety. This did not stop them from opening a business in Tanzania, and within eight years their panel beating business was fully established. They continued to work there until the political climate shifted. Media reports at the time suggested that refugees from Somalia were being targeted as foreigners.
And Ebrahim said this is what forced him and his brother to move again.
EBRAHIM SPECIAL: With special recipes, branded T-shirts for his employees and personalised cups, Ebrahim wants more. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
Before coming to South Africa, he moved to Zambia where he stayed for two years, and worked hard to build up another business and bring his two wives and their children to Zambia. Finally, in 2000, accompanied by his brother and one of his sons, Ebrahim made his way to South Africa. He was given quarters in Mayfair and taken to get an asylum seeker’s permit.
According to Ebrahim, it took him and his brother four years to save up and open their panel beating workshop.
“One man gave me a welding machine, in exchange I fix his car,” he said.
At first, the Ali bothers worked on the pavement and from people’s backyards, but soon he linked up with two fellow Somali countrymen, an electrician and a mechanic, and they started a workshop. Working day and night, they built up a strong clientele among the Indian community in Fordsburg.
However, during the 2008 xenophobic attacks his panel beating workshop was destroyed and his brother was killed. This left Ebrahim with no choice but to start again from scratch and restructure.
Ebrahim said a panel beating shop was too expensive and “it was going to take time”.
“When I started selling coffee, I was selling from a flask,” he said.
Since then he has opened his coffee shop in Mayfair. His walls are decorated with a collection of items from Somalia that he said remind him “about home and keeps me going”. Within 15 years, 47 Somerset Street in Mayfair has developed from a panel beating shop to a coffee shop and now a convenience store that sells a variety of things, including homemade juice and fast food.
“I employ six people now, one at home and five here at the shop,” said Ebrahim.
In 2013, research conducted by the African Centre for Migration and Society in the Western Cape suggests that it is the business strategies that Somali traders employ and the effects that Somali trade has on a range of stakeholders. While Somali spaza shops compete with their South African counterparts, the report finds that Somali spaza shops also provide a range of benefits to local economies.
A report released in 2012 by the Migrating for Work Research Consortium (MiWORC), an organisation that examines migration and its impact on the South African labour market, found that “people born outside the country [South Africa] were far less likely than those born in South Africa to be employees, and far more likely to be own account workers [self-employed without employers] or employers”.
The research further states that 31% of these traders employ South Africans. This has enabled more job creation in the informal employment sector.
Economic development: The Township Business Association South Africa
In addition to employment benefits, research done by African Centre for Migration and Society in the Western Cape states that skills transfer is another way that Somali business owners contribute to the South African economy. And with the newly launched initiative of skills sharing programme and the establishment of Township Business Association South Africa, “more sustainable economic benefits are expected”.
Abasi Mkhize, a local businessman from Soweto and chairman of the Township Business Association, said the establishment of the association came “earlier in 2015 when mass looting was taking place in Soweto which spread to various parts of the country. There was a lot of communication and interaction between local businesses and foreign nationals.”
After numerous interactions, Mkhize said the association was then established with the aim of trying to change “the image and the face of a migrant trader in the township”. “In a manner which fosters cohesion with the broader community and society where our migrant trades in.”
There are also a number of developmental activities that are put in place to create a healthy competition with South African businesses.
“We have in place a programme to train any aspiring entrepreneurs to enhance their skills free of charge,” said Mkhize. “We even go as far as availing R50 000 start-up capital.”
The road to this has, however, not been smooth. Both the Somali Community Board South Africa and the Township Business Association have identified a few potential stumbling blocks that hinder the process of skills sharing and challenge the development going anywhere further with the idea.
“As the foreign component of this initiative we have managed to sit down together and realised that we are finding ourselves in the same boat,” said Osman, “but we pride ourselves to say we managed to create one voice for all foreign nationals operating in township spaces.”
According to Osman and Mkhize, it is now the local associations that seem to fall short when it comes to decision-making.
“They have their own issues which include the inability to work together or collaborate to establish a single body,” said Osman.
According to Osman, a memorandum of collaboration with the South African Spaza Shop and Township Association (SASSTA) has been put on hold after various organisations asked SASSTA who they were to sign on their behalf.
But chairperson of SASSTA Rose Nkosi has rejected the accusation that the organisation has any issues that are delaying the collaboration. She said she is waiting for a planned roadshow where she is going to propose the idea to her members and see if they agree.
‘South African business people do not need more help’
Nkosi said South African business people do not need more help in developing their skills. She said further training is not necessary.
“The skills training is not a problem but it’s already done by the University of Johannesburg,” said Nkosi. “Whoever comes and trains people now, it’s just his own thing where they are trying to get money from CETA.”
Although many Somali entrepreneurs such as Ebrahim have lost many things in their journey to seek refuge in South Africa, their future business plans are looking beyond that.
“I hope to grow my business, like franchise, like Mugg and Bean or something,” said Ebrahim “imagine Ebrahim Qaxwo everywhere in the world.
FEATURED IMAGE:OVER THE WINDOW: She sits from 5.30am until 10pm in the evening, hoping and praying that someone will come and buy one or two items. The street is buzzing with similar businesses to hers, but Madina Umar says the money she makes every day is enough. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
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