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
The streets fell silent as South Africans lay down to honour women lost to gender-based violence, sending a message that silence is no longer an option.
Dressed in black and carrying the weight of a country perpetually in mourning, hundreds gathered at Constitution Hill on Friday, November 21, 2025, joining the nationwide shutdown organised by Women For Change to honour the lives of the 15 women murdered every single day in South Africa.
Participants of the national shutdown hold up placards on November 21, 2025 at Constitutional Hill, Johannesburg. Photo: Dikeledi Ramabula
At exactly 12pm, participants, including women, children and members of the LGBTQI+ community, lay down for fifteen minutes of silence under the scorching midday sun. Bodies pressed against the burning pavement, many visibly uncomfortable, yet committed to the symbolism of the moment. The air was still. The silence was heavy. The only sound that carried through the venue was the soft, steady calling of the names of the women who have lost their lives, spoken slowly, patiently, and with painful clarity.
In the crowd was *Lerato Madonsela from Braamfischerville, Soweto, a mother attending with her 15-year-old daughter, a survivor of a violent assault earlier this year. For Madonsela, joining the protest was not just an act of solidarity; it was a plea for justice.
“It’s very important for me to be here today because I’m supporting my daughter, who has been going through a lot,” she said. In April, her daughter was allegedly raped by a man dressed in full police uniform, mask, badge, and all.
The police officer waited for her daughter at the bus stop, “He called her and said I sent him to fetch her. She refused, he then intimidated her with a gun, forced her into a car, drove her to an area in Soweto and raped her,” she said.
Her daughter now panics at the sight of anyone in police uniform and cannot identify the man because he was masked.
Madonsela immediately opened a case. “The police took my statement and my daughter’s statement. They did all the tests,” she explained. But just three weeks later, she received an SMS saying the case had been closed. “So my daughter didn’t get justice.”
The ordeal has had lasting effects. Her daughter spent a month in a psychiatric hospital and is still on medication to manage nightmares. The trauma has also disrupted their daily lives. Madonsela said she recently lost her job because her performance suffered while she cared for her daughter. “For me to be here at the shutdown is a blessing,” she said. “I’m here for her.”
Placard that reiterates that enough is enough. Photo: Dikeledi Ramabula
Women For Change spokesperson, Cameron Kasambala, said the scale of the turnout left her fighting back tears,. “People showed up by the hundreds.” For her, the silent protest demonstrated the collective power behind the movement.
“We matter. Our presence is important. Our voices are powerful,” she said, adding that the willingness of people to lie down in the blistering heat for 15 minutes reflected deep solidarity with victims and families.
She stressed that symbolic gestures from government are no longer enough. She called for proper implementation of policies, transparent communication, specialised training and dedicated units within law enforcement.
“We want real action,” she said firmly. “We have heard enough talking, enough policy promises, enough conversations. The President has acknowledged this crisis on global stages like the G20, that means he must act with the urgency and magnitude it deserves.”
Among those who lay on the scorching pavement was Nompumelelo Chiliza, a University of Johannesburg student, who said she joined the shutdown to stand with women silenced by gender-based violence, including moments in her own life when she could not speak out.
Nearby, Yola Sekgobela from Krugersdorp said seeing hundreds gather felt “inspiring” after years of worsening violence. Lying down, he thought of women who no longer have a voice and families still fighting for accountability. “This has to push leaders to act,” he said.
The 15 minutes may have ended, but the call for justice and accountability continues.
*Not their real name
FEATURED IMAGE: Participants lie down for 15 minutes. Photo: Dikeledi Ramabula
Despite tuition appearing cheaper on paper, Wits students from financially disadvantaged households still grapple with mounting debt and the hidden costs of higher education.
Wits students face growing debt and hidden expenses that make higher education increasingly unaffordable despite seemingly low tuition costs.
Universities struggle with declining government subsidies, inflation-driven expenses, and financial strain, forcing them to raise student fees to survive.
NSFAS funding limits and inconsistent policies deepen student inequality, threatening to reverse the hard-won progress of the Fees Must Fall movement.
When Medupi Reginald Mathunyane, a final-year Biological Sciences student at Wits University, was defunded by the National Student Financial Aid Scheme (NSFAS) in 2022, the weight of uncertainty hit him hard. Months of appeals followed, each one a battle against bureaucracy and mounting financial anxiety. Today, as he nears graduation, his debt exceeds R100,000, growing every semester.
“I’ve done everything I can just to stay in class,” Mathunyane says, his voice carrying both determination and exhaustion. “But the stress of thinking about how I’ll pay back this debt never goes away. It’s like carrying a shadow over my studies, reminding me I might not make it through without sacrificing my dedication to my studies, with the hope that someday I will be funded.”
Mathunyane’s story is not unique. Across South Africa, students from financially disadvantaged households are feeling the squeeze. Yet on paper, higher education appears more affordable than ever. Professor Imraan Valodia, a former Wits University dean and respected economist, explains that comparing tuition fees over time without accounting for inflation gives a misleading picture.
“Degrees are not entirely more expensive,” he says. “If you take R60,000 in 2010, it would be roughly equivalent to R125,000 in 2025 when we adjust for inflation. By that measure, a R100,000 degree today is technically cheaper.”
But Valodia stresses that these numbers mask the lived reality for students. Over the past 15 years, South Africa’s consumer price index has averaged around 5% per year, while the higher education CPI (which tracks costs specific to universities such as equipment, laboratory maintenance and academic resources) has risen even faster. This means that even if tuition has not increased as sharply in nominal terms, the cost of delivering quality education has, leaving institutions and students caught in a financial tug-of-war.
At the heart of the affordability debate lies South Africa’s strained public finances. For years, sluggish GDP growth has constrained government revenue, leaving the Treasury with difficult choices between competing priorities: healthcare, social protection, infrastructure, and education all vie for the same shrinking fiscal pie.
The 2025/26 Budget allocated R146.6 billion to post-school education and training, about 5.7% of the total R2.58 trillion consolidated budget. Debt-service costs alone consume nearly R426.3 billion, almost three times higher.
The numbers reflect the impossible trade-offs. South Africa spends generously on education in global terms, at about 6.1% of GDP compared to the global average of 4.4%, yet this has not translated into affordability for individual students. Much of the spending goes to maintaining an already burdened system rather than making degrees cheaper at the point of entry.
Wits spokesperson Sherona Patel highlights the pressures universities face, which often go unseen.
“The University generally receives its income from three sources: state subsidies, student fees, and third-stream income such as donations or contract research,” Patel explains. “If subsidies decline in real terms, then student fees increase. Surpluses are reinvested into the academic project to ensure sustainability for future generations.”
Patel points out that the higher education inflation rate often outpaces general inflation. Specialized laboratory equipment, international journal subscriptions, and research costs are usually denominated in foreign currency, leaving universities vulnerable to exchange rate fluctuations. On top of this, Wits must cover additional domestic expenses, including diesel and water tankers during load shedding and water shedding, private security around Braamfontein, and inter-campus transport.
Despite these pressures, Patel notes that Wits allocated R2.33 billion in financial aid, bursaries, and scholarships in 2024, helping over 30,000 students access higher education. Historic debt totalling R63 million was cleared for nearly 800 students. Even with these efforts, Patel admits that the University cannot cover all student costs without risking insolvency. “Free education and debt clearance require national solutions involving government, the private sector, and donors,” she says.
Even the National Student Financial Aid Scheme, meant to be a buffer against financial exclusion, has struggled to keep pace with rising costs. In February 2025, the scheme announced a 4% increase in allowances for university students and a massive 46% increase for those in TVET collegesto cushion the blow of inflation. Yet students argue that these increases barely scratch the surface in cities like Johannesburg, where rent and transport costs quickly erode monthly stipends. NSFAS itself acknowledged the pressure, stating that “where necessary, NSFAS will take extraordinary measures to ensure that NSFAS-funded students are not left stranded due to skyrocketing accommodation costs.”
For the Wits SRC Treasurer General, Liyabona Baartman, the statistics do little to soften the financial reality facing students.
“The financial barrier is tuition and accommodation together,” he says. “Take someone studying medicine at UKZN and someone doing the same at Wits. The UKZN student pays less. Yet NSFAS applies the same funding formula across the country. That does not make sense. Living in Johannesburg is more expensive than living in KZN. NSFAS needs a case-by-case approach.”
Baartman also warns that the gains of the Fees Must Fall movement are being undermined.
“Before Fees Must Fall, NSFAS was a loan. We fought tooth and nail to turn it into a bursary. That was a major gain. But now, those gains are being reversed. NSFAS used to pay the full cost of accommodation. Now there’s a cap, leaving students stranded. The inconsistency in challenging the system has allowed these rollbacks to happen.”
For Mathunyane, the numbers are not abstract. They are lived experiences: long nights balancing part-time work and studies, the constant worry of falling behind, and the persistent anxiety that debt may derail his dreams.
“I’ve survived this far,” he says. “But I don’t know what will happen after I graduate. The debt does not go away. It feels like the system is built to make you survive, not thrive.”
At the heart of the debate is a national question: who should bear the cost of higher education? Families already grappling with unemployment and inflation feel the pinch. Universities warn they cannot fund every student without collapsing. Students insist that education is a right, not a privilege reserved for the middle class.
As Patel explains, “Student funding is a national challenge and requires broader discussions and solutions.” Baartman counters, “We cannot let the gains of Fees Must Fall be rolled back. Free education is still the goal.”
Until these tensions are resolved, higher education remains both a lifeline and a financial cliff, cheaper on paper, yet still impossible for those who need it most.
FEATURED IMAGE: Graphic of Wits University the stock market prices Going up to and logos by Phenyo Selinda
A 12-year-old who never let go of her dream and is now a household name.
After two decades of chasing news, Chriselda Lewis is back in the classroom, now chasing assignment deadlines. Wits University was always her dream institution, but her parents could not afford to pay for the fees, so now she is paying her own way.
Born and bred in Mthata, Eastern Cape, where opportunities are scarce, Lewis was fortunate that her primary school came to her rescue.
“I was told that I was a shy kid; however, at the age of 12 years old there was a television scout that came to my school. My teacher selected me to become a children’s show presenter on Transkei Broadcasting Corporation.”
The moment she stood in front of the camera, she knew exactly what she wanted to be: “I liked the lights, I liked the camera, and I thought this is exactly what I’m going to become.”
Chriselda at the Drum Room, Wits Department. Photo: Dikeledi Ramabula
Lewis completed her undergraduate studies in 2002 at Border Technikon, now known as Walter Sisulu University. After completing her studies, she began her career as an intern at The Sowetan in 2003.
“Working at The Sowetan was very challenging, as it was where I applied everything I had learned in tertiary education. It was also exciting because I had the opportunity to work with veteran journalists who had worked during the apartheid era, such as John Dludlu,” she said.
‘While I may not remember the first story I worked on at The Sowetan, I do remember cracking my first big story in 2004. One of them was the kidnapping and murder of university student Leigh Matthews,” she says.
As her career progressed from The Sowetan, she went on to work at the South African Press Association, followed by Talk Radio 702, then the SABC, where she made her first television appearance on SABC Africa.
In 2023, Lewis won the Journalist of the Year award in the Television: In-Depth/ Features/ Interviews category. Other career highlights include her coverage of the fall of Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe, the Oscar Pistorius trial and reporting on the earthquake in Türkiye-Syria.
Lewis always wanted to return to school, but never got the opportunity because her work life is demanding:
“As I speak to you, I’m in Bloemfontein to cover the memorial service of the police officers whose bodies were found in the Hennops River. Due to workload and insane working hours, I just never thought I’d find the opportunity to go back to school”.
Lewis says despite having 22 years of experience in her field, it doesn’t hurt to equip herself with better skills so that one day she can be a leader in the newsroom, and to do so, she must equip herself with the necessary qualifications.
But being back in the classroom hasn’t been easy. “If you give me a report I can do it for you, if you want me on TV, I can do it. I’ve moved into a different terrain doing academic writings which is a scary process,” she says.
When asked to share wisdom for aspiring journalists, Chriselda says, “This is not child’s play! Journalism is hard work; it is long hours. You are not going to survive if you don’t love this job. You have to love what you do!”
FEATURED IMAGE: Chriselda Lewis standing outside of the Wits Centre for Journalism. Photo: Dikeledi Ramabula
This narrative podcast episode is an open letter to a man named Ntate Johannesburg ( Ntate Jozi) who represents The City of Gold. Podcast host, Sechaba Molete gives us a glimpse of the lessons he's learnt about Johannesburg as he reads Ntate Jozi his letter. This thought-provoking audio experience is a just a click away!
