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
This short film turns the age-old question of “Does my partner really love me?” into a brutal survival metric that punishes emotional failure with deadly consequences.
I entered Love Economy blind, save for its AFDA Film School origins and a tantalising premise: a 12-minute Afrofuturist jolt set in a self-sustaining 2040 South Africa, where love isn’t just currency, it’s survival. The title hinted at romance’s commodification, but the poster, a couple in blissful union in vibrant traditional wear, the shine of their rings matching their smiles, juxtaposed by them facing away from each other against a white and pink backdrop, gave little away.
Love Economy grabs you in seconds, subverting expectations of another earnest indie tale of marital strife or rural drudgery. No slog through poverty porn here; instead, a Wakanda-esque utopia pulses with reclaimed luxury—padel balls sheathed in traditional prints, aerodynamic Xibelani skirts whipping on courts, flying Gusheshe taxis slicing neon skies and holographic dogs for the allergic. The heart of the film, The Love Meter, a digital tool, implanted at 21 in this futuristic South Africa amid mandatory marriage, tracks spousal affection: dip below viable, and you die.
Protagonist Rudzani (Ntokozo Nkambule) pours devotion into her cold husband Zak (Asande Zulu), but his learned infidelity and inability to emotionally care for her send her meter plummeting as she wrestles with “Makoti Must” edicts. Meanwhile, AI Thori—a Siri on steroids, house-bound monument—chimes warnings about his dangerously low love and suggests ways for her to fix it.
The film portrays gender and masculinity in 2040 as deeply intertwined with societal expectations and technological control, revealing the high stakes and emotional damage these norms inflict. Zak embodies the pressure to be the “perfect husband” within a rigid system controlled by the Love Meter. His attempt to fulfill prescribed roles despite emotional disconnect results in personal crumbling, highlighting the destructive nature of idealized masculinity that demands performance over authentic connection. And oh, does he perform. He loves Rudzani’s utility over her soul, and his masculinity’s high stakes crumble everyone involved: her social death is literalized through the plummeting Meter, while his escape is impossible.
The film critiques such masculinity as harmful not only to women but to men as well — both trapped in damaging roles. By making love a quantifiable survival metric that disproportionately affects women like Rudzani, it exposes how patriarchal and transactional aspects of love and marriage are enforced through technology. The story highlights women’s coercion to conform (“makoti must”) while navigating limited agency in relationships dictated by societal and state control.
Moreover, these dynamics link to ongoing South African realities, such as gender-based violence, showing how traditional masculinity and cultural expectations create festering harm technology aims to manage but ultimately cannot resolve. It calls for reflection on gender, care, and respect beyond social contracts measured by fear or obligation, advocating for love that transcends duty.
Directors Azwikonisaho Ramavhuya and Jaclynn Meintjes, alongside production designer Heebah Raji, infuse every frame with cultural colour theory, turning underrepresented Tsonga-Venda motifs into high-tech finery that screams African opulence, not capitulation. Visual effects artists Nkosisphile Ngubeni and Oamogetswe Tshenkeng craft seamless touches like wrist-bound meters, transforming Western imports into proudly African artifacts. The film’s feverish poetry in motion earned it nominations for Best Third Year Film, Screen Design Team, and Production Team at the 31st AFDA Graduation Awards.
Love Economy lands as South African Afrofuturism’s urgent milestone. Homegrown ambition proves we don’t need expatriate voices to conjure these visions. The plot doesn’t hand you answers — it shoves you into the meter’s glare and dares you: what’s love worth when it’s tallied like rations? In this kaleidoscopic 2040, does tech liberate hearts or merely ledger them? Watch, and ask yourself: are we already plugged in, or is true affection still off the grid?
Rating: 8.5/10
FEATURED IMAGE: LoveEconomy Poster. Image: Supplied/AFDA
Loading Kudu Bucks onto student cards is still a daily struggle at Wits University.
Terminals on East and West Campus are faulty.
Students insert banknotes into the machines, only to have the money disappear without the corresponding credit being loaded onto their accounts.
Others report that the machines outright reject their notes, leaving them unable to top up their balances at crucial moments whether to print or book a consultation at Campus Heath.
The issue has become a familiar and frustrating cycle.
This systemic failure has created a trail of lost funds, forcing students to either go without essential services or spend more money to get their tasks done.
Technical Security Solutions (TSS) management has attributed this to an aging access control system that is slowly being updated, hence their intermittent functionality.
FEATURED IMAGE: Faulty Kudu Bucks terminal on West Campus. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Wasteful expenditure on emergency ambulance transport is on the rise, and the university is now drawing a financial line in the sand.
Wits University attempts to manage the high cost of emergency services for residence students who refuse ambulance transport.
Almost R300 000 is spent annually on ambulance services.
The trend of transport refusals has been happening for years.
The frantic dance of red and blue lights shatters the silence of a Wits residence hall, pulsing through the window blinds. For a student without medical aid, this sudden flashing arrival is reassuring; a lifeline of professional care provided by the university.
But what happens when the student’s condition improves, or they have a change of heart and the ambulance leaves without a patient?
This frequent scenario is what the university views as a financially wasteful trend, prompting it to inform students they could be liable for a minimum of R3,000 for refusing transport for medical emergencies.
The communication, forwarded via email by the respective wardens to students living in Wits residences, begs the question of what exactly constitutes a “wasted call,” and how does this apparent misuse of emergency services translate into a significant financial burden for the university?
The financial burden and wasted calls
The Wits Campus Housing and Residence Life (CHRL) department has been absorbing costs related to student medical emergencies.
ER24, the private emergency service provider for students not on medical aid, expressed its concern to the university about students’ refusal to be transported.
Basil Mugwena, CHRL director, explained that if a student is not on medical aid, the university calls ER24 and covers the cost, opting for private services like ER24 over slower government ambulances.
The CHRL financial manager, Tabrez Jooman, stated, “Contractually, if a student refuses to be further assisted, the University still pays for the ambulance service.”
The university’s annual contract with private ambulance provider, ER24 amounts to approximately R300,000.
Mugwena notes that a single ambulance that is dispatched and leaves without a patient can cost the university almost R1,000.
It’s important to note that the R300,000 contract with ER24 does not cover the most severe cases. Mugwena, talking about the intensive care unit (ICU), clarified, “There are cases that we’ve had where we’ve had students in ICU.”
He emphasised that for these serious incidents, the university often has to cover much larger expenses. For example, he recounted one incident where a student was in the ICU for an extended period: “The default position is if you are not on medical aid after 72 hours, if you are still sick, you must be transferred to government [hospital]. Which will not happen. [So], we paid.”
These more critical situations fall outside the scope of the regular ambulance contract, placing a greater financial strain on the university.
The frustration, Mugwena noted, stems from situations where an ambulance is called, but the student either no longer needs or refuses the transport or those who call to “see whether these fellows will respond”.
“This [transport refusals] has been going on for the past few years,” he said.
Email correspondence to Wits residence students on ambulance transport refusals.
A paramedic’s perspective on refusals
Campus Health paramedic, Tebogo Sibilanga, whose team works closely with ER24 to provide rapid emergency care for students, confirmed that they have seen numerous cases of refusals for hospital transportation (RHT).
When asked how they determine if a student is fit to refuse transport, Sibilanga explained, “We’ve got what we call a Glasgow Coma Score. It has a score out of 15 which we use to determine your level of consciousness. And also, your body coordination.”
Sibilanga explained that they are legally prohibited from forcing a patient into an ambulance unless a mental health professional determines the student is a danger to themselves or others.
A common scene is set by Sibilanga: an asthmatic student who, after being found and stabilised by the team, refuses transport upon feeling better because they found their pump.
While the patient may have the resources to manage their condition, the paramedic’s protocol requires them to assess the situation thoroughly before leaving a patient to their own devices.
“We’ve had cases… when the paramedics arrived, they found that no, this particular student simply did not take their own medication,” Mugwena stated.
Sibilanga also shed light on the reason for the reliance on private services. “Due to delays with provincial ambulances—which can sometimes take hours—the university outsources the service to ER24 to ensure a rapid response time, ideally within a six-minute window.”
This partnership, alongside a deal with Milpark Hospital, Charlotte Maxeke and Hillbrow Hospital, is designed to bridge the gap in emergency care for students, particularly those who do not have medical aid.
“Actually, there are two paramedics on campus for the whole university, which is very disturbing. But we are working on hiring more people,” he said.
The challenge of mental health crises
A portion of the “wasted” calls stems from students experiencing anxiety attacks, particularly those who are directed to Akeso, a private psychiatric hospital.
Mugwena described this arrangement as a “headache,” noting a frustrating trend where students will often refuse to go to the on-campus Counselling and Careers Development Unit (CCDU), but then insist on being taken to Akeso. However, according to protocol, a student must first be seen by CCDU to get a referral.
Mugwena pointed to stigmatisation as a major reason for students’ hesitation to be taken by an Akeso vehicle, fearing they will be perceived as “mad.”
While the university does have the authority to authorise an “involuntary admission” if a psychiatrist determines a student is a danger to themselves, Mugwena believes the issue is more complex than simple abuse of the system.
He stated, “I will not say this person is doing this deliberately… I’m saying something may be underlying.” He added that he would not penalise a student for refusing transport due to a mental health issue, calling it “inhumane.”
So, are students actually liable for payment?
The short answer is no.
Contrary to the email, both Mugwena and Jooman indicated that the R3,000 charge mentioned in the email is a deterrent, not a rigid fee that has been implemented.
Jooman said, “I am not aware of any minimum charge of R3000 being set and none has been levied to any student to date.” Mugwena confirmed, “We have never done any penalty on any student.”
Despite the threat, it was revealed that their main strategy is education.
“The best thing that we can do is to educate because time and again we say to wardens, talk to students, particularly about calling ambulance services,” clarified Mugwena.
When asked if thereis ongoing communication with students about emergency procedures, Zethu Lubisi, warden for the all-female residence, Sunnyside Hall of Residence, said, “Yes, during quarterly PGM meetings, wardens share information and encourage students to use university health services like Campus Health to get timely assistance and reduce reliance on ambulance services.”
For now, Wits is walking a fine line, using a financial threat to manage a behavioural trend, while internally acknowledging the ethical and human complexities of the situation.
The central message to students is clear: “Stop abusing this,” while the internal conversation among staff is focused on the best way to educate students and reduce financial waste without compromising their wellbeing.
FEATURED IMAGE: ER24 ambulance vehicle parked outside on the piazza at the Great Hall at Wits University. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
At Wits University, physical and mental health declines prompt policy discussion on drug and tobacco abuse.
Substance abuse, specifically drug and tobacco use, is a common part of student culture at Wits.
In response to this, harm reduction is emerging as a more practical way to help those who are struggling.
A new bill on tobacco and e-cigarette control is being considered as a crucial step in addressing the problem at a policy level.
A walk past the Matrix, the Amphitheatre, or even Noswall Hall, brings the pungent scent of drugs on the breeze. It’s a common scene: groups huddled on benches, a joint, cigarette or vape passed between fingers. For many, whether from peer pressure, experimentation or the woes of life, it’s a “jol to zol” as a university student.
This casual normalisation of substance use on campus, however, is always concerning.
The School of Social Sciences addressed drug and tobacco use amongst students as a crisis demanding new policy solutions at a youth health talk on August 21.
For the SRC’s Health and Community Outreach Officer, Musawenkosi Hadebe, the issue is clear. “Particularly [with] students in the Wits Readmission Committee, we see substance abuse as a leading cause for academic failure,” she said.
So, what’s being done to address this?
In a proactive step towards reducing substance abuse, the national government is considering implementing the Tobacco Products and Electronic Delivery Systems Control Bill.
The Executive Director of Students for Sensible Drug Policy (SSDP), Charity Monareng advocates for its passing into law: “I believe that more pressure from youth voices, through signing the petition to pass the bill, is a proactive step forward towards attempting to reduce the high prevalence of substance abuse,” said Monareng.
The proposed bill aims to regulate the sale, advertising, and packaging of tobacco products and e-cigarettes. It seeks to control their manufacturing, prohibit sales to children, and ban free distribution and sales through vending machines.
While the Wits Student Code of Conduct prohibits the use of illegal substances on campus, the issue remains rife.
However, a new approach is gaining traction. Rather than simply condemning drug use, many are turning to harm reduction, a strategy that acknowledges that people using substances should focus on minimising the risks.
“Rather than demand complete abstinence, I believe in practical tips that minimise effects as the goal is to meet people ‘where they’re at’,” explained Sive Mijinde, a researcher and project coordinator at OUT LGBT Wellbeing.
For students looking for support, the university’s Counselling and Careers Development Unit (CCDU) provides a safe space. Students struggling with substance abuse are provided with healthy coping mechanisms and pathways to wellness.
FEATURED IMAGE: Close up of a joint between a person’s fingers. Photo: Elsa Olofsson/Unsplash
Four Wits Tang Soo Do athletes kicked their way past a funding shortfall, bringing home medals for a sport that almost left them behind.
The athletes represented South Africa at the 2025 Tang Soo Do World Championships in Scotland.
Each athlete won at least two medals, and brought home a total of 11.
This was the club’s first international competition since the covid-19 pandemic.
Striking gold on Scottish soil, four Wits Tang Soo Do athletes — Madiala Leputu, Treyen Pillay, Thomas Mbombi, and Michael Naidoo — returned to South Africa as medalists and champions of the 2025 World Tang Soo Do Championships.
The victory was particularly meaningful as it came after seven teammates had to pull out because of a lack of funding.
Lethabo Rabothata, the club’s chairperson, highlighted the significance of attending an international tournament for the first time since the covid-19 pandemic.
From left to right: Treyen Pillay, Thomas Mbombi, Michael Naidoo, Madiala Leputu. Photo: Supplied/Lethabo Rabothata
The scale of the achievement only truly sank in for Mbombi once he was back home. After winning a gold medal in open hand forms and two silvers in weapon forms and point sparring, the reality of the moment hit him.
“Hey, you went overseas. That was a world championship stage kind of a situation. Not just another tournament,” he reflected.
Pillay battled both his opponents and a bout of the flu that struck on the flight to Scotland. Despite considering withdrawal, he fought on.
“My family spent a lot of money to get me here, and I trained really hard for more than a year, twice a day, to get to this point,” he said.
His perseverance paid off; he earned a gold in weapon forms and two silvers in open hand forms and point sparring.
The championships was a source of inspiration for Leputu, “We came back with some experience of how to, you know, up our training. It was all worth it,” he said, securing gold in open hand forms.
Naidoo‘s gold medal was not just a personal achievement but a “rare honour” to represent his country on a global stage.
Ultimately, the team’s Wits Tang Soo Do instructor, Master Gregory Hart, praised the team, “I am very impressed with those young men.”
FEATURED IMAGE: The Wits Tang Soo Do athletes posing with their medallions at the World Championships in Scotland. Photo: Supplied/Lethabo Rabothata
The women of Medhurst Hall celebrate nipples, unashamed and free.
Wits’ Medhurst Hall challenged societal norms by going braless for a week during Women’s Month.
Their “Stick It To The Stigma” campaign encouraged women to feel proud of their nipples being seen.
Decades of conditioning forged deep insecurities, but this movement guided women towards self-love and acceptance.
Some women can remember the day vividly. Not the first time they wore a bra – that may be lost to the blur of childhood – but the day it truly became a thing. The gentle wire that eventually dug into flesh, the adjustable straps that always slipped, the sheer relief of unhooking it at the end of a long day, feeling their ribs expand, their shoulders drop. For many women, this is an intimate familiarity with a garment that dictates, rather than conforms.
Yet, for one week in August, students at Medhurst Hall, a Wits all-female residence, spent time loosening the tight knot of insecurity by freeing their nipples in honour of Women’s Month.
Their ‘Stick It To The Stigma’ campaign embraced the notion that women’s breasts are not deficiencies to be concealed or corrected, but rather celebrated.
As Kgothatso Kgowa, Academic Officer of the Medhurst Hall House Committee, puts it: “The idea that women must wear bras every day is a social norm, not a necessity. It’s rooted in patriarchy, media influence, and myths about health, leading even women to shame others for going braless.”
This sentiment echoes what has simmered for decades, from the “bra burners” of the past to the contemporary “free the nipple” movement.
“Boobs come in all shapes, sizes and personalities and that is exactly what makes them amazing,” mused Tokollo Matsaung, a resident of Medhurst Hall.
Her words tackle years of ingrained self-consciousness, “For so long,” she continues, “older generations quietly passed down shame and silence around our bodies, like we had to hide or fix what was never broken. But the truth is, your boobs aren’t wrong, society’s narrow lens is. Let them exist proudly.”
For Disebo Mokoena, another resident, this movement holds personal significance. “I started wearing a bra when I was young,” she recounts. “The minute my mom saw that I have breasts, she started to buy me bras.”
This early training, a common experience for many women, established a rigid framework. “You grow up with that mentality that I have to wear a bra because what are people going to say if I don’t?”
And the cycle of judgment often continues: “When we see girls not wearing a bra, we judge them because it was instilled when we were young that a woman should not go out with her nipples showing.” However, Mokoena now perceives a new trajectory. “I feel like this whole movement teaches us to love and appreciate our bodies the way they are.”
Through Instagram, Medhurst Hall reminds girls that: “You are powerful. You are enough. And you absolutely rock.” A joyful proclamation to “Stick It To The Stigma!” and, to allow their bodies to breathe free.
FEATURED IMAGE: From left to right: Medhurst residents Owam Madontsela, Lebogang Masemola, Kgothatso Kgowa posing with their nipples free.Photo: Supplied/Medhurst Hall
The Johannesburg City Library welcomes the public back after a five-year hiatus, following relentless pressure from activist groups.
Iconic Johannesburg City Library reopens, celebrating its 90th anniversary with a major renovation.
This comes after years of public frustration and protests over delayed repairs.
Despite the reopening, the library’s future Saturday hours remain in jeopardy due to ongoing labour disputes.
Despite the chilly morning, a warmth of excitement filled the City of Johannesburg (CoJ) as the iconic Johannesburg City Library (JCL) reopened its doors on Saturday, August 9.
A rush of bodies, from excited children to cheery adults, pushed past the throng of media and officials, eager to once again bask in the smell of old and new books.
Following major renovations by the Johannesburg Development Agency (JDA), five years after its closure, the landmark also celebrated its 90th anniversary on August 6.
The reopening was partially possible due to activist groups like the Johannesburg Crisis Alliance (JCA), and the Johannesburg Heritage Foundation (JHF), who were the loudest voices since the library’s closure in 2020.
“This is a facility that belongs to us. It was only when we shouted that they [CoJ and JDA] started working. So protest matters. Don’t let anyone tell you to shut up!” said Flo Bird, founder of the JHF.
Reopening on Woman’s Day was significant, as the city paid tribute to Anna Hester Smith, the library’s first female librarian from 1960 to 1975.
Officiated by Executive Mayor Cllr Dada Morero, the ceremony was a reminder of the power of community.
Pandemic related lockdowns were not the issue, the real problem arose when the CoJ and JDA found that due to structural issues, the building was non-compliant to fire safety systems, electrical faults, and had water leakages.
But years passed without an update and JHF complained that they seemed not to be in a hurry to do timely renovations.
The JDA’s CEO, Themba Mathibe, said the refurbishment preserved the library’s heritage while integrating modern infrastructure including structural repairs from upgraded electrical and security systems, to refreshed reading rooms and archival storage.
Many were in awe, their eyes and hands scanning the aisles of tall, stacked shelves.
Among them was the Deputy Speaker of the Johannesburg Student Council, Mpilo Kunene, who said, “The library is going to be a place where I can be myself and progress my knowledge as a student.”
He looks forward to the youth loving the space as much as he does, yearning for them to engage with the books they have been denied.
Yunus Chamda, coordinator of the JCA, fondly recalls that , “Having been a high school student in the 70s, this library really was the place, on Saturdays, to come and do school research work.” However, Sicelo Tshisa, manager of the library’s Integrated Library System (ILS), confirmed that the facility will only be open to the public Monday to Friday from August 11.
JHF is pushing for Saturday library hours, but still are corroborating with authorities who blame labour union issues for the delay.
FEATURED IMAGE: The Johannesburg City Library located at the corner of Albertina Sisulu Road and Pixley Ka Isaka Seme Street in Johannesburg’s CBD. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
The new initiative faces resource constraints, relying on donations to keep students fed.
Sizanani aims to feed non-funded students, as well as those in catered and hardship accommodations who can’t afford to book meals at the dining hall.
Each programme serves roughly 130 to 170 attendees, according to the project’s register.
But to operate weekly for a full year, the project would need an estimated R156,000.
Hunger is a silent crisis on campus. For many, lunchtime is a time of uncertainty, not a meal. While some can afford takeout meals at the Matrix or catering at dining halls, others wonder where their next meal will come from.
In May 2025, a Wits Vuvuzela student journalist reported that Sizanani Legacy Project launched their first weekend meal programme at Wits Citizenship and Community Outreach’s (WCCO) kitchen.
Sizanani aims to feed students on weekends who live in catered and hardship accommodation and can’t afford to book meals or aren’t funded. Filling a much needed gap.
The WCCO already provides limited daily food parcels, food banks, and maintains gardens, but it is not enough.
Two months later, four more weekends were hosted, including its most recent on Saturday, July 26, serving sandwiches and Sunday, July 27, serving bread and soup.
According to the register, each program serves roughly 130 to 170 attendees.
Each weekend, Sizanani spends up toR1500 on ingredients and cleaning supplies like hairnets, gloves, and aprons.
Wits Vuvuzela asked Sizanani’s internal affairs manager, Tshwarelo Mafuyeka if they could afford to host on a more regular basis.
“We honestly don’t have enough funds to operate to the extent that we would like,” said Mafuyeka.
He expressed the desire to cook everyweekend, but as an independent student-led initiative, resources are tight.
It would cost R156,000 to cover weekend operations – Saturdays and Sundays, every week – for a full year, Mafuyeka estimates.
However, the project remains optimistic due to additional support.
Campus Housing & Residence Life (CHRL) facilitated communication from several off-campus residences to Sizanani.
This brought South Point, Respublica (Yale Village), Focus 1, AFCHO, Dunwell, and Life Student Apartments on board as donors.
“Notably, Respublica gave the project 1500 noodle packs,” praised Mafuyeka.
The director of CHRL was not available for comment in time for publication, however, Mafuyeka reinforced that CHRL also assisted with “transportation or goodies for events.”
Sizanani also looked at other ventures for help. A Noodle Drive, as one of their initiatives, prompted Wits residents to donate noodles from March till July. Barnato Hall, Girton Hall and Reith Hall were the three top contributors, collectively donating over 200 packets.
Evidently, Sizanani wants Witsies to feed their minds with knowledge without going hungry in the process. Sign up for weekend drives open every Thursday.
FEATURED IMAGE: Volunteers dishing out cooked food into the lunchboxes of attendees at WCCO’s kitchen. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
GALA Queer Archive asks what does it mean to be queer and rooted in African traditions?
GALA Queer Archive held a powerful event to reclaim queer African identity.
The gathering highlighted how strict patriarchal norms, and traditional expectations often silence African queer voices.
Speakers emphasized that queerness has always existed in African societies.
In recognition of Africa Month, the GALA (The Gay and Lesbian Archives) Queer Archive celebrated the International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia (IDAHOBIT) on May 17 at Breezeblock Café in Brixton, Johannesburg — to re-assert queer African identity and challenge cultural exclusion at Breezeblock Café in Brixton, Johannesburg.
The GALA Queer Archive is an organization located at Wits University that preserves and promotes the history, culture, and experiences of LGBTQIA+ individuals in South Africa through archival collections.
During Africa Month, celebrated annually throughout May (with May 25 as the official date of commemoration in South Africa), the world marked IDAHOBIT as an opportunity for people across the continent to break down barriers.
IDAHOBIT raises awareness about the violence, discrimination, and prejudice faced by queer people worldwide.
Local Setswana handwritten on pink wall translating to: In my neighbourhood, being gay is a gender. Being gay is not being a boy or girl. It’s just being gay. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
This year’s commemoration focused on unpacking the painful disconnection between queerness and cultural identities in African LGBTQIA+ individuals.
The event discussed how culture shapes the way people live and connect. Traditions like family rituals, community events and ceremonies are meant to bring people together. But for queer individuals, these cultural spaces often do the opposite.
Researcher Nondumiso Lwazi Msimanga (left) reacting positively to panelist Desire Marea (right). Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Strict patriarchal rules dominate these traditions. They decide who belongs and who does not based on dress, behaviour and gender roles. As a result, queer voices are often ignored or silenced.
Dr Athinangamso Nkopo, host and moderator of the event, addressed this exclusion by telling Wits Vuvuzela that, “Those of us who are queer and African don’t understand how you can possibly mean that [we exist as] a contradiction.”
Panelist Albert Khoza challenged the myth of queerness as ‘un-African’ by emphasising that African communities had their own understanding of God long before the arrival of missionaries. Similarly, that queerness is not new; it has always existed within African societies.
“Maybe before it wasn’t called ‘queer’. Maybe before it was just a practice. It was looked down upon, but queerness is African. Africa is queer. It’s always been like that,” he said.
Panelist Albert Khoza. Photo : Lukholo Mazibuko
Keval Harie, the executive director of GALA Queer Archive, emphasized that queer individuals continually find unique ways to heal their human experiences and this day serves as another opportunity for such healing.
“We want to create a space where we bring our community together to share experiences in ways that allows us to heal and fight for another day.”
By aligning with Africa Month, this event insisted that queerness has always been part of the continent’s story. Through music, storytelling, traditional food, dress, and dialogue, attendees showcased how culture and queerness are not at odds but are deeply entangled.
From left to right: GALA coordinating team Keval Harie, Dr Athinangamso Nkopo and Kgomotso Kgasi playing Azanian games with an attendee in green sweater. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko Event DJ, Buntu the Ghetto, jamming to beats.
FEATURED IMAGE: Banner of assorted pride flags hanging from GALA Queer Archive emblazed gazebo. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
South Africa was crowned the country with the most press freedom in Africa after moving up 11 positions this year.
South Africa guarantees media freedom, as indicated by the recent World Press Freedom Day Index.
The 2024 general elections are to owe for the increase in ranking.
Despite improvement, some challenges still need to be addressed.
South Africa climbed the ladder and ranked 27th globally for press freedom, a jump from last year’s 38th ranking, according to the 2025 World Press Freedom Index released on May 2. Earning the top spot in Africa.
The World Press Freedom Index (WPFI) is an annual report, published by Reporters Without Borders (RSF) on World Press Freedom Day, ranking 180 countries according to the degree of freedom available to journalists in the previous year.
The country’s media freedom ranking is identified as ‘satisfactory’.
South Africa’s global media freedom ranking over five years. Graphic : Lukholo Mazibuko
“There is no question that journalists in South Africa work freely across the spectrum,” says Slindile Khanyile, Sanef’s (South African National Editors Forum) media freedom subcommittee chairperson.
But she adds, “Of course, it is not to say that there are no attempts to intimidate or censor them, but these are rare.”
The shift in position is believed to be indicative of the prominent 2024 elections. “I think being able to freely cover the 2024 general elections, which led to a coalition government at national level, for the first time since the dawn of democracy contributed to this,” says Khanyile.
On the elections, Reggie Moalusi, executive director of Sanef, adds, “Fortunately, we saw very few incidents when it comes to journalists being harassed and media freedom transgression where journalists or media houses were not allowed to do their work.”
Despite the progress, Moalusi critiques that the improvement on the mitigation of online harassment among female journalists would positively agitate the country’s ranking, for though the critical importance of media freedom is highlighted in the index, the treatment of journalists should not be overlooked. “There’s still a whole lot more of work that still needs to be done,” he said.
Khanyile also believes that “the continuation of investigative journalism in the public and private sector(s) played a role and contributed to the growth of independent media ownership.”
Waste Land covered by News24’s Sikonathi Manthshantsha and The Laundry by Dewald Van Rensburg of amaBhungane are examples of award-winning investigative series that reflect quality journalism.
Therefore, as Khanyile says, “[The index] reaffirms the country’s commitment to freedom of the press and freedom of expression.”
Artificial intelligence has the power to enhance journalism, but is journalism in more danger because of it?
Amid the chaos of a digital landscape currently being agitated and renovated by generative artificial intelligence, the news industry is no exception to its explosive impact. UNESCO aims to address this at a conference in Brussels on May 7 in commemoration of the 32nd World Press Freedom Day.
World Press Freedom Day takes place annually on May 3 to highlight the press’s current challenges and to raise awareness.
This year, the focus is on ‘Reporting in the Brave New World – the impact of artificial intelligence (AI) on press freedom and the media, highlighting the opportunities and challenges that AI has brought to journalism.
Unsurprisingly, generative AI is taking centre stage, as its disruption to the world of technology is too stark to ignore, especially in the news industry.
Principally, we know that news summarises and simplifies information. Broadcasts and articles essentially catch you up on current, recent or ongoing events and weave in analysis or interpretation.
So, does involving AI in this process really pose a threat as a technology that can soak up information in one form, drawing from existing sources to pour the same information into a different mould after?
Yes and no. I believe that anything involving AI means walking a tightrope and, as journalists, falling off that rope means jeopardising the foundation within which journalistic practice is built on — ethics.
A 2025 report by Thomas Reuters Foundation (TRF), paints the nuances of AI use in journalism in the Global South.
It states that 81.7% of journalists already use AI tools like CHATGPT in their journalistic work for drafting and editing content, research, fact-checking and idea generation to save time, reach new audiences and work more efficiently. Starkly, only 13% report using any official AI policy with 79.1% reporting an absence of any clear guidelines.
Of the few non-users, lack of awareness or knowledge of AI tools, insufficient training and support, lack of access to necessary technology, concerns about accuracy and reliability, ethical concerns, preference over traditional methods and fear of job displacement were some of the main reasons for not using AI.
Where newsrooms lack formal guidance and self-education on using AI tools prevails, transparency becomes fragile which is concerning when trust in journalism and the media is already tainted. I am at a crossroads because if AI use is disclosed in news articles, I’m not entirely sure if that would make me trust a news agency more.
That is because I value journalism’s core ethics and skills: original reporting, quality, accuracy, fact-checking and source verification.
Where ethics are concerned, one may question if post-evaluation of AI produced content was done because AI is known to sometimes hallucinate information, supercharging the spread of misinformation. So, as journalism is defined, it still leads as a reliable, fact-checked source of information.
Another ethical concern, as highlighted by The Conversation, is that while journalists may ask for the generation of summaries or idea prompts, sensitive information or copyrighted material is inadvertently uploaded into these public generative AI tools, which not only contravenes company policies but journalistic integrity.
TRF recommends that journalists “understand the ethical implications of AI”. These include “advocating for policies and practices that protect journalistic integrity, while also ensuring fairness and accuracy, and promoting trust with audiences.”
All of this considered, I cannot downplay the ease that AI has brought journalists. It should be welcomed in newsrooms as long as originality and critical thinking isn’t destroyed in the process.
FEATURED IMAGE: Live news broadcast by robot news anchor with breaking news lower thirds and a digital world backdrop. Graphic: Lukholo Mazibuko
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