A courageous Malawian woman making big life changes to ensure her own happiness, she first left her country of birth to attain financial freedom and then her husband, who tried to rape his stepdaughter. A mother, friend, mentor and sister, she lives in Orange Grove and works in a fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue.
LEFT: Mtsunge Katola, a single mother, tightly embracing her daughter outside of her fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue on a sunny day. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha.
UPON entering a store selling luscious fruits and vegetables on a sunny weekday, I find a young- looking woman engaged in telling a story to a man leaning close to her, with both his hands clasped tightly on his lap. From the deep stare in his eyes, I am curious to find out what this tale entails. The petite woman with brown, fuzzy hair puts her story on hold and welcomes me with a warm smile, kindly asking what assistance she can provide. I am pleased with the service, retrospectively comparing it with a recent misfortune of a cashier who scanned my products without even looking at me once, refusing to end the conversation I found her having with the cashier opposite us.
The woman, with the body and height of a 20-year-old, takes me through the different price ranges of her mouth-watering products, and instead of the weather small talk we get straight into the hardships of working and living on Louis Botha Avenue. Just like that, I was let in on the life of a single mother, abandoned by her spouse, who migrated for survival.
The planting of the seed
Mtsunge Katola is a Malawian mother who works at a fruit and vegetable store on the west side of Louis Botha Avenue and 7th street. She lives only two streets away from where she works to make a living. There are numerous walk-ins on an hourly basis on the right hand side of her store, where *Salem Kuran, a Pakistani man, owns a supermarket, allowing more people to pass by the fruit and vegetables on display outside her own store.
On the left hand side, a pot-bellied, one eyed Malawian man sells home appliances. A stray black-and-white cat keeps him company through the day as hardly any customers come into the store. Always found outside, he stares and smiles, rocking backwards and forward, and just when I think he will finally utter a word when I look back at him, he shyly walks into his store, only to come out a few minutes later to continue watching us.
Somewhere in the suburbs of Johannesburg lies one of the longest streets joining opposite ends of the city, with a century-long history. We find Louis Botha Avenue, a road that could be north of Pretoria and south of Bloemfontein.
(Left to right) Mtsunge Katola, Alex Khado and Garry Manaka, the entrepreneurs of Louis Botha Avenue hanging outside Katola’s store on a sunny day waiting for customers to help them make a living for themselves. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
The Groove of Louis Botha Avenue
With a plethora of churches, businesses and eateries, Louis Botha in Orange Grove, Johannesburg, is a place where work and home can easily co-exist. With some describing it as “little Africa”, many have migrated to make a living for themselves.
John Smith, one of the many regular day drinkers is picking up a fresh pineapple with a beer on his left hand from the fruits on display outside Mtsunge Katola’s affordable fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha.
This is the same for David Leckison, a 27-year-old man who works at another fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue and 6th Street. Almost always found just outside his store, with his pants sagging as he stands, an automatic bounce accompanies his walk. He looks left and right before entering, as if talking outdoors is taboo.
The Malawian-born man relocated to South Africa in 2015 to seek employment and better his family situation. Leckison is the second of three children of Joseph Leckison and Jennifer Izeck, who are back in Malawi surviving on the money sent by their children. “When we first moved to South Africa my brothers and I stayed in Pretoria CBD, but because John and I were not making money we had to move to a place where we could make money”, says Leckison as he refers to Louis Botha Avenue.
Mtsunge Katola is a fruit and vegetable store owner on Louis Botha Avenue who has found a home away from home. She takes us through a journey of her life in Orange Grove and her workplace in Louis Botha Avenue. Video: Jabulile Mbatha
Handshakes and a half embrace take place between Leckison and a tall man, who I hear say, “I really look forward to working with you, my man.” As I find the conversation ending, Leckison folds his arms, revealing a faded tattoo and simultaneously putting his chin up, eyeing me and standing with his legs far apart from each other as he says “Mhh” as a way of greeting back, as he always does.
The friend is known as Dexter Ndlovu , a resident of Orange Grove who shops regularly on Louis Botha Avenue. His relationship with Leckison began on credit. “I regard David as my own brother,” says Ndlovu. “When I did not have enough money, he would allow me to take things on credit; he never expected the money to be paid back. I knew he had a good heart.”
LEFT: (Left to right) Mtsunge Katola allows the guys (Alex Khado and Garry Manaka) to drink and operate their business outside of her fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue as it brings in more customers for her. Photo Jabulile Mbatha
Orange Grove is an economic hub with a multiplicity of activities within what is a residential area. Although it experienced a decline in development in the late 1900s, people still find a way to make it work. There is a vast variety of nationalities, races, religions and incomes in the area. It shows even in the infrastructure, from the exclusively Ethiopian churches to the Christian schools, to the Italian eatery and through to the newly developed apartments opposite ancient, shabby ones. The streets are loud with chatter from residents walking from place to place, and from the engines of BMWs and Porsche Cayennes.
A culture of getting sloshed
One late evening in Louis Botha, streets are filled with passers-by rushing back home and many hand signs are flashed in the air by those waiting for almost broken-down taxis to take them back home. A number of uniformed old women slowly drag their feet to wherever home is, walking in silence, too tired to even speak to each other after a day of scrubbing the kitchen floors of their sir and madam.
The taverns fill up with sweaty men in safety boots and tattered PPE clothing wanting to grab one for the road, leaving behind those who have been there since the sun came up.
On a buzzing night just like any other, on the corner of Louis Botha Avenue and 7th Street, Stanley Maseko and Susan Mkhize are among numerous others drinking inpublic, with some still in uniform from their respective work places. The drenching smell of a brewery is detected from a mile away and one of the men sitting in a line shouts to me as I ask what the occasion is.
LEFT:The purchase of vegetables are essential to Mtsunge Katola because it means that she will have enough money to feed her children and take care of other financial needs. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
“Hey sister, this is Louis Botha and we drink for a living!”
A severely scarred face approaches me with a smile of broken teeth and with deep, sad eyes. This resident of over 20 years shares that his late mother used to work at Hospice Wits and now that she is gone, he is left all alone. “I have made my fair share of mistakes in this lifetime and I do not want to blame it on being motherless, but I do think I wouldn’t have done some of the things I have done if I had a family.” In the crowd of public drinkers, Mkhize interjects, cursing Louis Botha Avenue for being rotten. “There are no jobs here,” she says. “What is the point of having family if we are going to live in poverty? I would rather be alone like you, Stanley.” She explains that Orange Grove hardly has running water, let alone electricity.
Mtsunge Katola is patiently waiting inside of her fruit and vegetable store for customers. She misses her children who are back home taking care of the house. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
I discover that the electricity crisis is true after several visits to Katola’s store, which becomes as dark as the night when the sun has set. Katola is almost never alone in her store. A man who seems to be fixing wires in the back peeps out to see who has come in as she stands to hug and welcome me. She apologises because her little shop is lit with a single candle, and asks that we sit close to the door so we can use the street light to see each other clearly.
The man, who is constantly emerging from the back of the store, is *Thulani Khumalo. “I have stayed with ‘Mama wa Ishmael’ for years now. I am always in the store because I live in the back, guarding her store during the night. I do this because she saved my life. I can say God blessed me with another mother,” Khumalo says. Many refer to Katola as the mother of her children’s names, as a way of showing respect. She earned this respect by giving Khumalo a chance from a life of homelessness and drug use, by distracting him with maintenance work at the store and the task of guarding it at night.
With the sun setting much later in the evening, and the warm air putting people into shorts and sleeveless shirts, the fruit and vegetable business does better since the season has changed.
LEFT: *Portia Smith embraces Mtsunge Katola with a big smile on her face after Katola agrees to help her with applications for schooling so she can better her future. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
Although there are a number of fruit and vegetable stores along Louis Botha Avenue, each one caters to a different part of the city, from Orange Grove to Alexandra. Louis Botha Avenue has the potential to generate economic growth as it did in the past; the city of Johannesburg is working on developmental programmes such as the Transit- Oriented Development Programme to alleviate inequalities in this high-density area.
Captured by the storytelling, assisted by continuous hand movements, a mother and her son pick up and analyse the vegetables, almost as if lifting weights. They bring our conversation to a halt. Katola Mtsunge stands up with her warm smile, saying, “How can I help you mama?” It may be this hospitality that makes her more than just a woman selling veggies. When the woman cannot find the last of her needs, she is referred to one of the other stores across the road. Like a mind reader, Katola takes one look at me and answers, “We help each other out. When I don’t have something in store, I refer my customers to someone else who might have it, because after all we are all trying to make a living.”
With the notion that life is better in South Africa, Katola left a country with an unemployment rate of 5.40% for a struggling South Africa with a high jobless rate of 29% to date. “The education in Malawi is good, I must admit, but after I completed high school I struggled to find employment so I moved up here in 2008.”
Xenophobia is defined as “fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers; it is embodied in discriminatory attitudes and behaviour and often culminates in violence, abuses of all types and exhibitions of hate”.
Having lived in Pretoria at first as a domestic worker earning only R800 a month, a place rife with xenophobic attacks, she moved to Louis Botha Avenue feeling underpaid and afraid for her own life. With a breaking voice, Katola says, “I watched my friend being burned to death in Pretoria, knowing there was nothing I could do to help her because I am a foreign national too. The only solution was to move.”
FEATURED IMAGE: A woman selling at an informal stall. Photo: Supplied
Former Auditor-General Terence Nombembe takes the chair at Wits Council, bringing a legacy of accountability to the university’s top governing structure.
Terence Nombembe, a key figure in South Africa’s fight against state capture, was appointed Chairperson of the Wits Council on 6 May 2026.
Nombembe has been a member of the Council since 2021, providing him with years of insight into the university’s complex financial and policy landscape.
SRC Deputy President Sibusiso Ngele expressed hope that Nombembe’s history with student leadership will lead to a positive future for the university.
The University of the Witwatersrand (Wits) has officially appointed former Auditor-General and Zondo Commission investigator Terence Nombembe as the Chairperson of the Wits Council. The move, announced on 6 May 2026, brings a world-renowned expert in accountability to the university’s highest governing body.
A legacy of oversight
Nombembe is no stranger to high-stakes governance. Before his election to the Chair this month, he served as a member of the Wits Council for five years, starting in 2021. His professional pedigree is rooted in transparency; he served as South Africa’s Auditor-General from 2006 to 2013 and later as the Head of Investigations for the Zondo Commission into State Capture.
Beyond his public office, Nombembe has held influential roles as the CEO of the South African Institute of Chartered Accountants (SAICA) and served on the board of the WWF South Africa. His career has been defined by a zero-tolerance approach to financial mismanagement, a background that Sibusiso Ngele, Deputy President of the Wits SRC, considers a vital asset.
“He is very familiar with Wits’ proceedings and the Council in general,” Ngele said. “That background is very important for the institution’s future.”
While the appointment of an “integrity expert” carries significant weight, Ngele was careful to define the boundaries of the Council’s power. He noted that while the Council approves major policy, financial rules, and documentation, the day-to-day management of the university remains the responsibility of the Vice-Chancellor.
Ngele noted that Nombembe’s role is primarily one of oversight rather than executive action, emphasising that the entire Council structure, not just the Chair, is responsible for implementing the university’s approvals. “As much as he is [the] Chair, it’s not very executive decisions that he has [to make]; it’s the whole structure that’s responsible for that implementation,” Ngele explained.
Addressing sensitive issues
When asked if Nombembe’s history of holding institutions accountable would change how management interacts with student leadership on sensitive topics, such as campus infrastructure, Ngele admitted the answer is not simple.
“It would be very difficult to answer that question,” Ngele stated. However, he remained hopeful that Nombembe’s track record would lead to a more collaborative environment. “Given his history with the SRC, I think we can really hope for a great future ahead for Wits,” Ngele concluded.
Waiting for the full picture
At the time of publication, other top members of the SRC executive, including President Gilbert Nchabeleng and Treasurer General Sonwabo Mhlahlo, had not yet commented regarding their specific expectations for Nombembe’s term.
As Nombembe settles into the chair, the student body will be watching to see how his high-level expertise in accountability translates into the tangible student experience on the ground.
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of the Great Hall at the University of Witwatersrand. Photo: Daniella Ripamonti
I WAS ONLY 16 years old when I was admitted to hospital because I was not coping with life. Two days later the doctor told me, “You have clinical depression.” I didn’t know what that meant but now, years later, I have learned a lot about my mental illness.
The diagnosis came after I lost my father, uncle and best friend within a year of each other.
I have been on prescription medication for more than a decade. I often feel like I’m losing my mind but I can’t always tell what the source of the feeling is. It’s hard to narrow it down and I never really know whether I’m just overreacting.
The thing is as a man, I have been raised and socialised to be strong and to never show emotions. For years I stopped telling people because they would either laugh at me or tell me to “stop stressing” and “just take things easy”. I would take things easy if only I knew how to. I’m getting better at asking for help and expressing my feelings. It is not always easy because sometimes I don’t know what it is that I need.
I often feel as though there are walls closing in on me from all sides. Those who know me will tell you that I laugh as if everything is fine. I engage in conversations. In other words, I seem perfectly ‘normal’. At any given time, even around people, I feel as far from company as any human being can be. It is on the shores of this lonely island of my own thoughts when I am most vulnerable, which, for me, is most of the time.
An hour before I originally wrote this piece, I was feeling great. I was in good spirits, having just gotten home from having breakfast with my partner. All of the sudden I felt wiped out. I gravitated towards my bed and began to tweet through the feelings because sometimes, that’s all I can master the energy or will to do.
Even after reading this, I know what I will hear: “May God help you”, “you are not alone” and other well-meaning words. I don’t know about God, but I know about strangers who have been kind to me. I know about my mother who prays for me. I know about my sister who would do anything for me. I know about my few friends who indulge my peculiarities. The thing is, I will still feel this way.
My studies have been my coping mechanism for the past couple of months. I also have a very beautiful dog that keeps me busy and makes me appreciate the little things in life.
We need to talk more openly, honestly, and more frequently about mental health. I know it’s not just me because whenever I write or tweet about it people share their stories and support me.
If you are going through what I am going through, seek help. We have organisations such as the South African Depression and Anxiety Group (Sadag) who will walk this journey with you and help you cope. I am following my own advice as I have just made an appointment with Sadag to get counselling and, hopefully, after a decade, I will get to rely less on medication.
As the cold begins to settle and the due dates creep closer, the Wits Hindu Students Society creates a home away from home by hosting a Thunee tournament on campus.
The Wits HSS recently held its annual Thunee tournament.
Prizes were up for grabs ranging from R200 to R1000.
The aim of the tournament was to preserve the culture of the game and create a community for its players.
With money to be won and a game you love to play, what could be more exciting? On Friday, May 8, the Wits HSS hosted its annual Thunee tournament at the Margo Steele building.
Up for grabs – R1000 for first place, R400 for second place, and R200 for third place. These prizes are a culmination of the money raised by entry fee tickets, which cost R100 per team.
The game dates back to the 1860s, when Indian indentured labourers arrived to work on the sugar cane fields in what was then known as Natal. A game that helped them find connection and preserve culture amid their enslavement in a strange land.
Even though the game has evolved since, all you need is three of your best friends or complete strangers and a special pack of 28 Playing Cards.
“To continue hosting these tournaments will play a very big part in keeping Thunee alive at Wits, because naturally certain things skip generations, and we’re trying to prevent that.” explained Aadit Aheer, the former chairperson of Wits HSS.
The tournament was not just limited to Wits students but also open to members of the community. There were three teams made up of self-named ‘uncles.’
Five hours. Two calm initial rounds. A captivating quarterfinal. A chilling semi-final. A crazily competitive final.
While the game is about tricking opponents and reaching a total of 105 first, it is also about communication—how well you and your partner know each other, what a slight eyebrow raise, or nostril flare could mean.
As the tournament shifted from a fun night with friends to an intense evening of eye contact, smack talk and cards hitting the table, only four teams remained.
It was Uncles 3 versus Call & Loss, and Uncles 2 versus EN-SYNC.
The entire crowd peaking over their shoulders as they played for the top prize.
The night ended with Uncles 3 winning first place, Call & Loss taking second place and Uncles 2 coming in third.
The winners of first and third place graciously donated their prizes to the Wits HSS Temple and a first year they had played against, respectively.
Directions to Thunee tournament. Photo by: Kerese Govender
A hand of cards held by a player. Photo by: Kerese Govender
Names of teams playing in the tournament and a pack of cards. Photo by: Kerese Govender
Second place winners of the Thunee tournament, Savani Govender and Ashen Naidoo. Photo by: Kerese Govender
Deck of special cards for Thunee tournament. Photo by: Kerese Govender
Winners of Thunee tournament, Colonel Lionel Chetty and Kevin Peramaul, with the chairperson of the Wits HSS, Ushdir Singh. Photo by: Kerese Govender
“We would like to give this money back to charity,” said Colonel Lionel Chetty, member of Uncles 3. “For us, it is not just a game. It brings people together.” he further commented.
Thunee is more than just a game. It is the beginning of friendships. All it takes is one look at the table to your left, a quick question, “You know how to jol thunee?” and the rest is history. It serves as a semblance of home for those who leave everything and everyone, they know, to attend Wits. Whether it is at your grandparents’ dining room table or at the Matrix, the game lives on.
FEATURED IMAGE: Directions to Thunee Tournament. Photo by: Kerese Govender
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....
The Atlas of Uncertainty offers a profound perspective on African migration, redefining our understanding of belonging.
Atlas of Uncertainty opens at Wits Origins Centre.
Various artists, writers and researchers celebrated their work during the opening ceremony.
The exhibition holds significance in today’s divided society.
Picture of papier-mâché boat sculpture entitled ‘Mashuna and Hakuna nija’ by artist Onys Martin. Photo: Jamie Ho.
The Atlas of Uncertainty exhibition opened at the Wits Origins Centre on Saturday, April 18, inviting visitors to question the current agenda around migration, urbanisation and belonging in Africa.
From a paper-mâché boat constructed from receipts to a woven tapestry stitched with burlap, the exhibition offers a more humanising lens for viewing the global phenomenon of mobility: not as burdensome, but as inherent to humanity.
Rooted in three African cities, Johannesburg, Accra, and Nairobi, the Atlas looks beyond the borders that divide us. Migration researcher Loren B. Landau highlights that the current scholarship neglects to capture the complexities of Africa, thereby revealing a need to move “from the counting to the feeling; from the census to the senses.”
To understand the vast complexities that define the continent, the Atlas is not only working across borders, but across different media, disciplines, platforms and ways of thinking. Urban sociologist Caroline Wanjiku Kihato explains that this “lets different ways of knowing sit alongside one another, without forcing them into a single voice.”
The Atlas of Uncertainty is a powerful revision of how we understand African cities. It uproots mainstream narratives surrounding migration, opening the space up for uncomfortable yet necessary conversations.
Spatial practitioner, Carina Kanbi provides some insight into the actual making of the project and how its themes of migratory politics were mirrored over the course of its conception.
Going all the way back to 2023, when the project first began, she notes challenges faced by the artists working across borders, not only in physically transporting the works, but also in handling bureaucratic restrictions between countries. “The exhibition did not begin this morning,” she explains. “It very much began in transit.”
And staying true to this theme of mobility, the Atlas will remain a piece of art that will remain in perpetual movement. While it is on exhibition until July 3 at the Origins Centre, it is also planned to showcase in Accra and Nairobi in 2027.
Each piece of the Atlas reverberates with the passion of its creators. Each tassel holds weight.
Each shard aches with feeling. As the cracks of division deepen in our world, the value of this exhibit lies not only in its ability to challenge the status quo, but in its ability to reach where data and statistics cannot, to reconnect with our ability to be human.
Close-up of artwork titled ‘I am the Graffiti on the Cracked Wall‘ by Windybrow Arts Centre. Photo: Jamie Ho.Picture of ‘Strangers and Spaces’ by Austine Adika. Photo: Jamie Ho.Close-up of ‘A Map of Dreams and Realities’ by Billie McTernan. Photo: Jamie Ho.
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of artwork titled ‘When We Travel, Where Do We Settle?” by Wezile Harmans. Photo: Jamie Ho.
The city’s digital creatives are redefining what it means to live and work in a ‘world-class African city’.
Johannesburg exists in two places at once. There is the Johannesburg you can touch, smell, feel, and hear, with its jacaranda-lined streets, exploding roads, screams of traffic, glitzy high-rises, and pungent smell.
And then there is the other Johannesburg; the one you’re taking for granted. The one that pulses through fibre cables and 4G signals, the one that lives in Instagram grids and Google Drive folders, in DMs and collaborative Canva boards. The one that causes jumpy thumbs to double tap and fingers to type three flame emojis after a post.
This is the sophisticated and highly functional digital city built not of concrete and steel, but from code, bandwidth, and human collaboration. This is the digital creative economy.
Sitting in multiple digital meeting rooms – not physical ones, because even the concept of gathering has evolved – I encounter creatives who show the slogan still holds true. Not despite Johannesburg’s dysfunction, but because of what has emerged from it.
The mythology and the reality
Johannesburg earned its world-class aspirations honestly. Founded on the world’s largest gold deposits in 1886, it became Africa’s financial heartland, contributing 17% to South Africa’s GDP. Former Reserve Bank Governor Tito Mboweli once declared it a place where “phones dial, the lights switch on, you can drink our water,” services that would seem mundane elsewhere, but which distinguished Johannesburg as exceptional in Africa.
That distinction is disintegrating. Between July 2024 and March 2025, the city reported 97,715 power outages. Johannesburg Water’s aging infrastructure requires R1,09-billion annually just for pipe replacements, funds the cash-strapped municipality cannot provide. The city faces potential bankruptcy, having written off R13-billion in irregular and wasteful expenditure. City Power is owed R10-billion by residents and businesses who have lost faith in paying for services that barely function.
Political analyst Goodenough Mashego’s assessment is blunt.
Johannesburg arrived where it is because of mismanagement, the lack of political will to fix it and because the people who have been running it have had this vision that they can leave
The Centre for Development and Enterprise concluded years ago that Johannesburg is a “slipping world city,” at risk of falling off the global map entirely.
Yet, in this landscape of decay, something unexpected is flourishing.
What is the ‘digital creative economy‘?
“It’s anywhere where there’s an ecosystem of various kinds of practitioners in the realms of entertainment, design, fashion, musicians, fine art, artisans, et cetera,” says Khensani Mohlatlole, a digital creative.
Renaé Mangena, who owns a digital publication, iQHAWE Magazine, thinks that “there’s a difference between the creative space and then the creative economy.”
The creative economy, she explains, is broader — the flow of money through creative industries, how creativity feeds into markets, how cultural production contributes to GDP. It’s the macroeconomic dimension.
“The creative space in itself, maybe it’s just like the more of where we’re at as artists where any form of creativity is produced,” she continues. “I like to think of it as an ecosystem of sorts.”
Mohlatlole emphasises the relational nature of this ecosystem. “There’s a lot of interconnectedness. Like you need everyone else for it to work, essentially, for it to operate as a creative process.”
It recognises that creative work emerges from networks, collaboration, and the provision of services. A photographer needs a stylist, a makeup artist, a designer. A writer needs editors, curators, platforms.
The digital creative economy only functions as an ecosystem that enables work to be discovered, valued, and eventually monetised. And post-Covid-19, the burst of content creators, CapCut editors, and caption connoisseurs has never been more prominent in South Africa.
Zinhle Zoe, a content creator, responding to comments on her YouTube channel. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
How creatives operate in Jozi’s digital creative economy
Rorisang Sebiloane is unmuted on Google Meets, donning glasses and a large smile, meeting with me in a manner that has become more familiar to Johannesburg’s creatives than any physical studio.
The story of how her media agency, Helang Media, began is quintessentially millennial, shaped by the blend of desire and accident: “In varsity, I used the bursary money to buy an iPhone, naturally, as one does.”
This seemingly small purchase, coupled with a casual suggestion from an iStore sales representative and a friend’s encouragement, led her to start a YouTube channel. Sebiloane soon realised her true passion lay in the digital space, prompting her to drop out of engineering and switch to marketing.
Sebiloane recognized a powerful, universal anxiety among her peers, stating, “People start to realise that nobody really knows what they’re doing, but it doesn’t mean that you won’t get somewhere or you won’t be successful.” This moved her toward collective storytelling in the form a segment called, These Twenties, featuring interviews with people navigating their twenties, normalisingthe non-linear, often confusing, experience of young adulthood.
When I ask Sebiloane whether digital platform mechanics shape her creative choices, she pauses thoughtfully. “In the beginning, I didn’t really care because I was just doing something that I was passionate about. But then when I sat down and I said, okay, this is something that I want to do and I want to take it seriously, you definitely consider the look and feel and the tone of social media.”
But not always.
She refuses to chase viral moments which is what Instagram and Youtube thrive on. “If I’m doing street interviews, I cannot think, okay, I need a viral moment because that’s not what my platform is about,” she insists.
https://youtu.be/3f9ltIzCi08
@okbaddiek – Writer, Content Creator, Fiber Artist
Khensani Mohlatlole’s relationship with social media is more complex and more fraught. “A lot of the things that I’m interested in are by way of the internet as well. It’s quite hard to remove my creative output from it,” she explains.
Unlike Sebiloane, who came to digital platforms after discovering her passion, Mohlatlole has been online since childhood. “I’ve been on the internet since I was six years old. It’s my culture, my school, my home. It already has informed the things that I want to do.”
She recognises the trap of algorithmic thinking. “I will say there are definitely times I’m doing something with a very conscious intent of like, I need to get this many views or I want this much engagement, or I know there’s certain things people will always eat up online.”
But there is another path through this landscape, one that consciously rejects the algorithmic premise entirely.
A day later, Anele Nyanda appears on my screen, a simple backdrop of a wooden wall, her presence carrying a quiet intentionality. She’s an analog film photographer shooting on 35mm or 120mm film.
After posting her photos on Instagram, iQHAWE magazine discovered her work at an exhibition called Threaded by Faith.
“She sent me a direct message on Instagram and asked if we could sit down and have an interview, well not sit down because we did it like this (virtual meeting), so I can just tell her about my work and my practice,” Nyanda explains.
Physical spaces allow people to connect beyond the reaches of the online world. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Nyanda embraces a slower, more intentional creative process, preferring to work solo because, as she puts it, “It takes me quite a while to come up with something.”
This approach contrasts sharply with the fast-paced, content-heavy demands of digital platforms, where constant posting is often seen as necessary for visibility and relevance.
Her philosophy values depth over frequency — fewer images, more meaning. She’s not drawn to social media, saying, “I actually don’t enjoy social media… I feel sometimes a post won’t give my photos justice.” Instead, she favours exhibitions and physical spaces where her work can be fully appreciated.
Touching and engaging with creativity physically is as powerful a tool as snapping it to share online. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Still, she acknowledges the tension between her method and the digital norm: “I also understand that now it seems like every time if you’re a photographer, you need to post or do a lot of work online.” This makes navigating online platforms a challenge for her.
Mohlatlole observed that the professionalisation of digital spaces has created new rules and new expectations. If you’re a photographer, you must have an Instagram presence. If you’re a writer, you must maintain consistent output. If you’re a creator, you must feed the algorithm. But not all editorial photographers reject algorithmic thinking as categorically as Nyanda does.
Nondumiso Shange greets me through the computer screen, connecting and separating us, with an enthusiasm as palpable as her passion for the creative space.
Her entry into the space follows the familiar pattern of digital discovery: she was featured in iQHAWE after they reached out to her on Instagram.
Don’t have kids and you will make it out alive
As a creative, Shange is clear that she is conscious of social media when producing: “If I’m working with Netflix or Multichoice, I’m thinking, how am I going to post this on my feed? What will audience engagement look like? Otherwise, when I’m just doing something for me, then I don’t really think about the feed aspect of things.”
But what if the digital creative economy needs both acceleration and slowness? Both digital-first creatives producing at a consistent basis and traditionally grounded artists developing work that demands time? Both Instagram feeds and exhibitions? Both viral moments and long-form impact? Is it sustainable?
“You have to be super, super flexible all the time. The algorithms change so much, the interests change often,” Mohlatlole explains. “There’s an aspect of you having to ground yourself in something a little bit evergreen and also understand that the moment can change all the time.”
If your next few posts don’t perform well, you might lose out on paid collaborations. It creates a high-pressure environment, even though, ironically, it’s all happening on a platform like Instagram. “Don’t have kids and you will make it out alive,” chuckles Shange.
A lot of companies nowadays look at content creators and influencers as mini ad agencies. Photo: Supplied
Money, money, money, must be funny, in a digital creative’s world
Ideas cost money. Economic privilege is an ongoing battle for creatives.
Sebiloane faces the monetisation crisis that characterises much of South Africa’s creatives where there is this gap between reach and funding access.
“I think that they don’t take it seriously,” she says cynically of institutional funders and brand partners.
“We’ve seen a move of influencers being taken seriously. Unless you have a certain number or certain reach, forget about making money from your content.”
Shange is brutally honest about her own position: “I will say I am more on the privileged end. Not because I have money but because my parents have money.”
“I’m not worried about paying for rent. I’m not worried about groceries. I’m not worried about a roof over my head. I’m not worried about little things that some creatives do have to worry about on a daily basis.”
“Expressing my creative freedom is a bit easier for me as opposed to somebody who’s like actually, they need to work for money.”
Shange makes her living through direct commissions through offering her services as well as paid brand collaborations. Until then, “everything I do is out of pocket.”
“Success looks like me being able to pay rent,” muses Mohlatlole bluntly. She’s been deliberate about treating her creative work as a business from the beginning. “I’ve done the whole nine-to-five thing. My creative work has always been a business in my head.”
She has developed multiple revenue streams as a result.
Close up shot of content creator, Hlayisani Makhubele’s, phone propped on a tripod and displaying Tiktok while posing to shoot a video. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
“I take subscriptions on Patreon,” Mohlatlole explains. “My digital projects bring in the most revenue. And then from time to time, if it seems like a good idea, I will also do paid partnerships with brands.”
The creative cost of commercial work is undesirable at times, “Making ads is like torture. It’s like dragging your balls across glass,” she says with dark humour.
“A lot of companies nowadays look at content creators and influencers as mini ad agencies more than like working on actual storytelling content.”
Hlayisani Makhubele editing footage on her phone in the late hours of the night after shooting content during the day. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Despite this, she’s pragmatic about the economic necessity. “If the money is good enough, I’ll take a check. Provided they align with what I can produce.”
Nyanda does not have the same mentality, but she would like to. “Because my work has just been very conceptual, I ask people to help me (for free). I haven’t been able to monetise. It’s just been passion projects.” When push comes to shove as a creative, “you have to work on the kindness of your friends to help you out,” says Mohlatlole.
Is it seriously every man for himself?
Hlayisani Makhubele preparing to shoot to a make-up tutorial for her TikTok. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
“The other thing with the digital space is that it’s quite dependent on you calling the shots,” says Mohlatlole, “but there’s such a lack of government funding and support.”
Mangena has experienced this first hand having to run a magazine.
@renaé_mangena – founder of iQHAWE Magazine, Digital Content Producer
“It needs money,” Mangena starts, giving a dry, mirthless chuckle with the kind of weariness that comes from knowing the biggest obstacle is always the budget.
She makes an analogy: “I can never go and say become the Minister of, I don’t know, a tech industry but I don’t know the first thing about the tech industry.” Yet somehow, cultural and creative policy is made by people disconnected from the realities of the sector.
Johannesburg’s 2040 Growth and Development Strategy doesn’t even mention the cultural and creative sector, despite the fact that Gauteng province, of which Johannesburg is the economic heart, contributes 46,3% to South Africa’s creative industry GDP and generates the highest employment impact in the sector.
Though there may be funding programs that require local governments agencies to partner with arts and cultural organisations in their cities and towns, iQHAWE is no stranger to the non-guaranteed system of applying for funding.
“I can’t start season three of These Twenties without money!” exclaims Sebiloane.
“At times, it feels like if we had their undeniable support, it probably wouldn’t feel as fickle. It really is all on us,” says Mohlatlole with furrowed eyebrows.
Hlayisani monetises her skill in makeup to support herself and using social media to attract clients is her go to. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
They’ve described an economy that barely exists yet clearly does; one that’s generating real income and real cultural impact despite being structurally unsupported.
They’re building world-class work in a city where new high-tech offices are built while waste piles higher on the next corner, where public parks will continue to rot and where first-come, first-go at perpetually faulty robots is the new norm on the road.
But tomorrow, they’ll all log back on. They’ll post and create and collaborate and network and build.
Because Johannesburg’s world-class status now belongs not to its infrastructure, but to its people. And they’re not waiting for permission to prove it.
FEATURED IMAGE: A woman in a dark room whose face is lit up by the screen of her phone. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Katlego Makhutle Journalist I am a creative writer and an eternal student of life. My vision is to build something that stands the test of time whilst ensuring that I make my dreams a reality. My optimism and faith in all things good is the fuel that keeps me going...
Although South Africa is a food-secure nation, food insecurity plagues townships such as Alexandra. The lack of access to affordable nutritious goods has stunted many low-income households.
In South Africa, stigma and discrimination have mostly been associated with persons living with HIVandtuberculosis, but intheMangolongolo community, Johannesburg, theyare now also causing fear and panic amongcoronavirus survivors.
The unpaved road is riddled with many bumps, like that of an abandoned village. Coming from the R29 Main Reef Road, the narrow lane takes you to the shacks from your right. Itis 3pm and the heat is unbearable. Crowds of people huddle close to each other in small circles, while loudmaskandimusic conceals the sound of the community.
Situated on the outskirts of Johannesburg, Mangolongolo is inhabited by approximately 3000 people.
This community is blighted by lots of challenges, not least among them a range of health issues. The situation is complicated by a rising problem ofdenialism,along with stigma and discriminationwhich have taken hold during thecovid-19 pandemic. In February 2020 the World Health Organisation (WHO) declared thatfear of the pandemic had resulted in stigma and discrimination for those who recovered from the virus. TheUnited Nations (UN)echoed this,noting that stigma and discrimination,exacerbated by covid-19, are major concerns.
The virus man in a small community
For communities such asMangolongolo, however, stigma and discrimination against covid-19 survivors aremade worse by the lack of knowledge and entrenched cultural beliefs. “I will never get the virus and I don’t think I will ever get tested for it. The less I think about coronavirus, the better,” said Blessing Nqiwa (25), a resident ofMangolongolo.
Locals saythere is only one man believed to have had coronavirus in the entire community. They refer to him as ‘Mister Covid’.
“I will call for you the only person I know who was taken by the covid-19 response team,” says a woman in her 60s who sells fatcakes at the main entrance to the community. I can’t help but notice the looks of concern and consciousness from people around. I am shocked to discover that not one of the people who haveformed a ring around me is wearing a facemask.
I am the only one with a mask on. It feelsas if I am an alien on a different planet. I feel I must take the mask off to get a sense of relief.
The streets look busy, with vendors hawking cigarettes, cow heads and other food items. The drains are stocked with garbage. It does not take me long to learn that wearing a facemask is considered strange in this community, even in the thick of the coronavirus. This heightened sense of denialism fuels the disturbing degree of stigma and discrimination.
For one man (Mister Covid), this is particularly concerning. Even though he was taken to a treatment centre to be tested for covid-19, Victor Shezi*(37)tested negative. Shezi’s journey back home was, however, shockingly met with consternation by the people of his community. Afraid of contracting the virus, people shunned him. After he spent a week in the hospital, his community became worried because they thought he might have contracted the virus and could be a potential carrier.
Amid coronavirus pandemic, the world is also dealing with the social stigma of covid-19 survivors during this time. However, the WHO advises people to take effective action to help combat the disease and to avoid fuelling fear and stigma. Photo: Zikhona Klaas.
“I was surprised when I heard that people said I had covid-19,” Shezi says, quirking his eyebrows. “I never thought I’d be considered a threat to the people I live with every day.”But the stigma and discrimination only raised Shezi’s confidence and his awareness about the pandemic.
When he finally comes to meet with me outside the main entrance, I am amazed at his sense of consciousness. While my hand is readied for a handshake on his arrival, it is rejected with an elbow greeting. I feel embarrassed for a moment, but I am impressed by his level ofawareness. He wearsa black BMW customized facemask.Unlike other people, Shezilooks very confident and well informed about safety measures.
“Some people have a problem that I wear a mask and don’t allow anyone to come close to my spaza shop window without a mask,” he says.“I am labelled for this and even called names,but I am unmoved by these names because I know all about the risks of coronavirus, and how to protect myself.”
Shezi got sick in August, during level two of the national coronavirus lockdown. He had a high fever, sore throat and difficulty breathing. He spent a week at the local Johannesburgpublic hospital, Charlotte Maxeke, and was discharged after testing negative. He says even children young enough to be his kids call him names every time they pass by his shop.
He invites me to his home and shows me around his house. It hasa long brown board that divides his spaza shop from his bedroom, which isvery noticeable from the door.The spaza window is so small, only a hand could fit through it. Just outside his house, two women and a man siton a brown bench, sunbathing. I join them.
“I heard that people who have the virus are not supposed to come back to the community because they can be a danger to us,” says Smangele Ntuli (35).“I didn’t want Mister Covid(Shezi)anywhere close to me. Iam already dealing with my own disease. I couldn’t afford to get sick again.”
Shezi could not be saved from the stigma and discrimination even in a public gathering like the one we are having.
“We don’t know who came up with that name,” gigglesWelile Shabangu, a neighbour, whois amused by the question. “It’s probably people from the main entrance: they know everything that happens in this community.
“I panicked for a while when he went to the hospital, but I doubted he had the virus,” he says.
Disease labelling deepened in South Africa
Asurveyby the National Institute of Health says about “20% of people experienced anxiety, fear and thinking too much” as a result of the coronavirus outbreak.
This ties into 2019 researchby BioMed Central, which found that stigma enables varieties of discrimination that ultimately deny people full social acceptance, reduce their opportunities and fuel social inequalities. The research further notes that stigma could reinforce stereotypesofpeople with various health conditions.
Throughout the pandemic, there have been concerns that people with underlying medical conditions are at heightened risk of fatality. This fear is compounded by pre–existing challenges, with reports of increased levels of stigma and discrimination suffered by people living with HIV in countries such as South Africa.
A civil organisation, the African Centre for the Constructive Resolution of Disputes (ACCORD) identifies South Africa as one of the countries with the highest prejudice and discrimination against covid-19 patients. In other parts of the continent, such as Kenya and Ethiopia, stigmatisation has been in relatively verbal and physical form, saysACCORD.
A line of people standing outside the Malvern clinic entrance without masks. Most of the residents in this region, including Mangolongolo community go to this local clinic for WI-FI connection and not for covid related inquiries. Photo: Zikhona Klaas.
In the Mangolongolo community, Shezi is not alone. A family had to relocate a relative who had TB and also contracted the coronavirus. The patient had to be moved away because of the fear of being labelled a virus carrier, says Ntuli.
“We were all afraid when we saw the covid response team wearing full white clothes at our gate,” said Gugu Shabangu, a resident who witnessed Shezi’s departure to hospital. “Things were never the same. He is a businessman around and had customers who bought from him before that.”
Shabangu says many people, some even looking out from their houses, were shocked by what had happened. “I think the attitude of people towards Shezi changed from that day. It started as a joke and never changed,” she says.
A Wits University professor, Lenore Manderson, compares the coronavirus stigma to that ofthe HIV epidemic in South Africa.
“We have seen in our history that denying diseases is either to control behaviour or to control a country as a whole,” she says.
She concludes that stereotypes could fuel the transmission of the disease in communities.The WHO has also reinforced this view by observing that the spread of the virus could be worsened by stigma and discrimination that force people to hide their illness.
Alison Best, a TB HIV Care communication manager, highlights these issues as serious problems for a response to the pandemic, in an article.
“As a result, blaming and shaming will mean that those affected by the disease may find it difficult to seek help or disclose their positive status to others, thereby inhibiting the process of testing, isolation and contacttracing,” Best says.
Meanwhile, the problems of stigma and discrimination during this pandemic stretch beyond infection rates in communities. More than ever, health workers are perhaps at the worst receiving end of the situation.
“We have seen in our history that dining diseases is either to control behaviour or to control a country as a whole “
While they risk their lives to save others, many endup beingostracised in their communities because of the nature of their job and their levels of exposure to infected patients. In Nepal, for example, the Nepali Timesreports that many health workers were even threatened by their neighbours and landlords, who feared they would spread the virus.
Lizzy Poe*,30, a nurse at Johannesburg private hospital, Netcare Garden City,has suffered stigma and discrimination in public transportmany times. “I remember one day I was running to get into a taxi, and I had shortness of breath and started coughing non-stop,” says Poe. “One passenger got out of the taxi with a bad attitude afterwards. I felt bad.”
Poe later tested positive for coronavirus and had to protect her children because of fear, by not telling them she had the virus, as a means of controlling the situation.
For Manderson, social stigma poses a threat of sustaining the spread of the virus. “People will refuse to get tested or reject the behaviours required of them to protect others,” she says.
More education, less stigma
President Cyril Ramaphosahascalled for the condemnation of stigma and discrimination of any form in South Africa.
“Just as we came together to promote acceptance of people living with HIV and stood firm against victimisation, we must show understanding, tolerance, kindness, empathy and compassion for those who are infected with this virus, and for their families,” the president has said.This call is yet to be heeded in communities such asMangolongolo.
Pastor Thembinkosi Zimba, a religious leader at Mangolongolo, explainsthat denialism in the area exists because the community isalready dealing with many social issues.
“Already our people are facing challenges that are threatening their livelihoods. Covid-19 seems like it was not the worst challenge they faced during this lockdown,” he says.
Zimba hosts church cells at the community hall every Wednesday, from 6pm to 7pm. Even though he admits it is difficult to identify or acknowledge discrimination at church because of the religious stance, he believes fighting stigma and discrimination must be a collective effort.
“As a church, we call people who have recovered from the virus and encourage them by preaching the scripture to them,” Zimba notes.
It will take a serious attempt to educate communities that have little or no knowledge about the pandemic. To this effect, the Gauteng provincial governmentuses educationand social mobility to fight stigma and discrimination by targeting people from various backgrounds.
“A ward-based strategy was implemented that involves various government and non-governmental organisationsand that gears towards intensifying the response to the covid-19 pandemic in the province,” says Kwara Kekana, Gauteng Department of Health spokesperson.
The Gauteng department of health deployed over 8 000 trained field workers to screen and test people in the province, in efforts to fight the covid-19 pandemic. Photo: Zikhona Klaas.
At a community level, the provincial governmenthas intensified public health awarenessabout the virus through community radio stations, at taxi ranks and during grant collection days, Kekana says.
Shezi, even though he did not have the virus, is slowly getting used to being called ‘Mister Covid’. He spends most of his time with his close friends and hopeshe might be reintegrated into his community once again.
His best friend is deeply worried about him being called ‘Mister Covid’. Shezi struggled to find his feet after returning from the hospitalbut received supportfrom his close friend, Brenda Mhlanga.
“I would have been infected if he had the virus,” says 32-year-old Mhlanga.“I cooked his meals and ensured that his business was taken care of. It just happened that he got sick with flu at the wrong time.”
He has been a resident inthe Mangolongolo community for nine years and now sells essential goods in his spaza shop.
“People will always speak badly of you,” he says. “I don’t owe anyone an explanation, so Iwill just keep quiet until they forget completely. Hopefully, after this pandemic,” he concludes, his face shining with a smile.
FEATURED IMAGE: Amid coronavirus pandemic, the world is also dealing with the social stigma of covid-19 survivors during this time. However, the WHO advises people to take effective action to help combat the disease and to avoid fuelling fear and stigma. Photo Zikhona Klaas.
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
Since her announcement as the Democratic Alliance’s mayoral candidate for Johannesburg, Helen Zille has dominated national headlines. In this bonus episode of We Should Be Writing podcast, hosts Lulah Mapiye and Bonolo Mokonoto dissect a media meet-and-greet with the mayoral hopeful. From her extensive political résumé to her controversial public utterance, we examine why the Democratic Alliance has chosen Hellen Zille as their candidate for the 2027 local mayoral elections. Additionally, […]
