Thirty years after the dawn of democracy, Johannesburg remains a city of profound contradictions.
In 1994, South Africa stood at the threshold of an era that promised equality, freedom and unity under the banner of democracy. The country’s first democratic elections saw the formal dismantling of apartheid – a system of institutionalised racial segregation that had oppressed millions of people for nearly half a century. The world watched in awe as Nelson Mandela cast his vote in South Africa’s first democratic elections, a momentous symbol of the country’s transition from apartheid to democracy.
Johannesburg, a city of gold and dreams, was at the heart of this new South Africa. It was a city meant to reflect the promise of equality, opportunity and freedom for all, including those people who sought refuge in its streets. But 30 years later, Johannesburg tells a more complex story.
Although democracy may have opened its arms to political freedom, it also incubated the rise of anti-immigrant sentiments and left economic divides not only unbridged but, in some cases, exacerbated. As the wealth gap widens, many South Africans are left asking why democracy has not resulted in fair economic distribution. This has led to socioeconomic upheaval and created fertile ground for the anti-immigrant movement in the heart of Johannesburg.
A history of migration
South Africa’s history with migration, both forced and voluntary, predates the advent of democracy. Under colonialism and apartheid, the country’s economy heavily relied on migrant labour from neighbouring countries like Mozambique, Malawi and Lesotho to fuel its mines and agricultural sectors. However, the legal framework of apartheid strictly regulated the movement of black South Africans and foreign workers, maintaining rigid social hierarchies.
With the end of apartheid in 1994, South Africa became a beacon of hope for many people across the continent. Neighbouring countries, having supported the anti-apartheid struggle, anticipated that the new South Africa would lead the charge in promoting pan-African unity and open its borders to fellow Africans seeking better opportunities. Indeed, South Africa has experienced a significant influx of immigrants, particularly from neighbouring countries in southern Africa.
The new government aimed to dismantle the socioeconomic structures that had marginalised most of the population. Economic instability, political turmoil and violence in countries like Zimbabwe, Mozambique and the Democratic Republic of the Congo have driven many of their citizens to seek refuge in South Africa, with Johannesburg being a primary destination.
The post-apartheid government embraced a more open immigration policy, reflecting its commitment to human rights. However, this liberal stance has not been without friction. Jo’burg’s urban environment has seen a rise in competition for jobs, housing and services, often leading to resentment among local communities towards immigrants.
Socioeconomic factors
Johannesburg’s skyline, dotted with high-rise buildings and cranes, suggests a city of unrelenting progress. Yet, beneath this glittering façade lies one of the most unequal cities in the world. The World Bank and various studies indicate that South Africa remains a highly unequal society. A significant portion of the population was denied access to economic possibilities because of apartheid policies and South Africa began the 1990s with already high levels of inequality. The Gini coefficient, a common measure of inequality, places South Africa among the most unequal countries globally, and nowhere is this divide more palpable than in Johannesburg. Wealthy suburbs like Sandton flourish, whereas townships and informal settlements such as Alexandra languish in poverty and neglect.Economic inequality in Johannesburg is not a new phenomenon. Still, the promise of democracy – with political freedom supposed to translate into economic opportunity – has failed many people. Thirty years later, democracy has not led to the mass reduction in inequality that so many people hoped for. South Africa’s high unemployment rate, particularly among the youth, has fuelled frustrations that are often misdirected towards immigrants. Many South Africans perceive immigrants as competitors for scarce resources and jobs. This perception is exacerbated by high levels of poverty and inequality, particularly in informal settlements.
Many immigrants in Johannesburg rely on informal or small-scale businesses to earn a living, facing opportunity and vulnerability in a challenging economic climate. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
As democracy stumbled in delivering economic equality, Johannesburg also became a beacon for migrants across Africa fleeing political instability, war and economic hardship. Zimbabweans, Nigerians, Somalis and Congolese, among others, arrived in the city in search of work and safety. They brought with them their entrepreneurial spirit, opening small businesses in the informal sector and contributing to the city’s vibrant culture.
But for many native South Africans living in poverty, these migrants became convenient scapegoats. As unemployment surged to more than 30% and service-delivery failed, accusations that foreigners were “stealing jobs” or “draining public resources” took root. Anti-immigrant sentiments morphed into violent outbreaks of xenophobia, most notably in 2008 and again in 2015. Johannesburg, the city meant to embody the dreams of a democratic South Africa, became the epicentre of anti-immigrant violence.
Police officers patrolling neighbourhoods known for tensions. South African authorities play a critical role in managing tensions, with police presence aiming to prevent violence and protect communities. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
Perceptions of crime have significantly influenced anti-immigrant sentiment. A series of violent incidents involving immigrants have given rise to the stereotype that foreign nationals are responsible for crime in the city. Although studies indicate that crime is a multifaceted issue not limited to immigrant populations, these perceptions have been manipulated by politicians and media, deepening divisions.
Political rhetoric plays a crucial role in shaping public opinion on immigration. Political parties and leaders have used anti-immigrant rhetoric to galvanise support, portraying immigrants as a burden on social services and a threat to job security. This has led to waves of xenophobic violence, with Johannesburg witnessing several violent outbreaks against immigrant communities. This politicisation has further entrenched negative attitudes, undermining social cohesion.
The rise of movements like Operation Dudula – a vigilante group targeting foreign-owned businesses and calling for the mass deportation of immigrants – reflects how dangerous this scapegoating can become. Such movements frame the immigration issue in narrow, exclusionary terms, reducing it to a zero-sum game in which the presence of foreign nationals is directly correlated with the suffering of South Africans.
Politicians such as minister of sports, arts and culture Gayton McKenzie, the leader of the Patriotic Alliance, and former mayor of Johannesburg Herman Mashaba, who leads ActionSA, are among the politicians who promoted anti-immigrant rhetoric.
McKenzie has called for the enforcement of stricter immigration laws to control the influx of illegal immigrants. He believes that this would help to protect jobs for South Africans, particularly in impoverished communities. In turn, Mashaba emphasises the importance of adhering to the rule of law and has advocated for improved border security and better tracking of immigrants within the country.
Public policy specialist Dr Kagiso “TK” Pooe, says McKenzie and Mashaba have highlighted a problem that is often ignored. The South African government and some liberal-leaning publications have glossed over average South Africans discomfort with illegal migration. “What parties like Action SA, the Patriotic Alliance and the like did was address their long-ignored plea for redress on this matter,” he says.
In response to rising xenophobia, numerous civil society organisations have emerged in Johannesburg, advocating for immigrant rights and fostering dialogue between communities. Initiatives like the African Centre for Migration & Society have sought to document immigrants’ experiences and challenge negative stereotypes. These organisations play a vital role in promoting tolerance and understanding amid the ongoing challenges.
Thandi, who asked that only her first name be used, is a 28-year-old Malawian immigrant who arrived in Johannesburg two years ago, fleeing economic hardship and political instability in her home country. Lacking legal documentation, she found herself in a desperate situation, needing to support her family back home.
After weeks of searching for work, Thandi finally found a job at a local restaurant. However, the experience was far from what she had hoped. Her employer took advantage of her undocumented status, paying her significantly less than other employees and making her work long hours without breaks. “I was afraid to speak up,” Thandi recalls. “I needed the job, but I knew I was being treated unfairly.”
One day, Thandi fell ill and could not report to work. When she returned, her employer informed her that she would not be paid for the days she missed and threatened to report her to immigration authorities if she continued to cause “trouble”. Feeling powerless, she accepted the terms, enduring the harsh conditions for fear of losing her only source of income.
Thandi’s story highlights the vulnerability faced by many undocumented immigrants in Johannesburg. They often endure exploitation, fearing legal repercussions while striving for better lives. “I just wanted a chance to work and support my family,” Thandi says, emphasising the harsh reality of seeking opportunities in a challenging environment.
Democracy, capitalism and the divided city
Immigration to South Africa has been growing, with significant numbers of migrants moving for employment and education. However, there was a decline in migration during the covid-19 pandemic.
Anti-immigrant sentiment in Johannesburg is not only a fringe phenomenon: it has found resonance in political movements and everyday conversation.
One man, who prefers to remain anonymous, speaks honestly about his frustrations. “These foreigners come here and take what’s ours,” he says. “We don’t have enough jobs, houses or food, but they seem to have their own businesses and drive cars. Why should they get what we don’t have? This is our country.”
So, where does the blame lie? Has democracy failed Johannesburg, or has the city’s experiment with capitalism exacerbated the divide? The Human Sciences Research Council’s South African Social Attitudes survey found that only 48% South Africans were happy with democracy. Pooe believes there is a declining satisfaction with liberal democracy.
According to political analyst Dr Thandeka Dlamini, the blame should be shared. “Democracy in South Africa is a political achievement, but without economic transformation, it was never going to be enough,” she says. “The country has followed a neoliberal economic model that prioritises markets and profits, often at the expense of addressing deep-rooted inequalities. Democracy promised the people freedom, but it allowed capitalism to run rampant. The result is a divided society where the elite – both black and white – prosper, while the rest fight over scraps.”
Her words are echoed by migrant advocate and activist Musa Nkosi, who points out the irony in South Africa’s xenophobia. “Johannesburg was built on the backs of migrant labour – first from the rural parts of South Africa, and later from all over Africa,” Nkosi says. “To say that migrants are now the problem is not only false, but deeply hypocritical. The problem is the system that has failed to provide for everyone.”
A fresh wave of xenophobic tension now threatens to tear apart the fragile social fabric of South Africa’s largest city. Recently, in Soweto’s Naledi township, a tragic incident underscored how deeply these divides run. Five children, aged between 6 and 7, lost their lives after allegedly consuming snacks purchased from a local spaza shop. As news spread that the shop was operated by foreign nationals, rage and grief morphed into violence, reigniting simmering anti-immigrant sentiments.
“We’ve been complaining for a long time about the conditions in these shops,” says Zandile Tshabalala, a Naledi resident. “But no one listens. Now, children are dead. These foreign shops come here, sell us expired goods, and no one cares until something like this happens.”
For many people, the presence of foreign-owned spaza shops is symbolic of their broader economic exclusion. Many South Africans feel that migrants have cornered the informal retail market, while locals struggle to find jobs or open their own businesses. The economic frustration, coupled with poor regulation and governance, has turned foreign nationals into easy targets for displaced anger.
Amid the escalating crisis, the South African department of labour has weighed in, taking a balanced stance. The department has expressed concerns over the conditions in which many spaza shops operate, calling for stricter compliance with labour and health regulations. However, it has also emphasised that the violence and destruction of foreign-owned businesses are unlawful and counterproductive.
The tragedy in Naledi is a stark reminder of the fragile state of democracy in Johannesburg. Although the city has politically transformed over the past 30 years, it remains economically divided. Democracy in Johannesburg has undeniably brought political freedom, but it has failed to dismantle the economic disparities that plague its residents. The rise of anti-immigrant sentiments is an unfortunate byproduct of this failure, with migrants often bearing the brunt of frustration in a system that seems rigged against the poor.
FEATURE IMAGE: Immigrants residing in the informal settlement of Hillbrow gathered together. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
Exploring the evolution of South Africa’s music copyright laws reveals significant shifts in creative rights for artists, particularly during the transition from apartheid to democracy.
The development of music copyright throughout South Africa’s democratic transition in the 1990s demonstrated how musicians battled for recognition and rights in the face of institutionalised persecution.
The Separate Amenities Act of 1953 posed a significant obstacle for renowned saxophonist Winston “Mankunku” Ngozi during South Africa’s apartheid era. Because of legislation that forbade mixed-race concerts, Ngozi had to perform with white musicians behind a curtain, thus keeping the audience from seeing him. In a degrading incident, he was forced to perform behind the curtain at a 1964 Cape Town City Hall show with an all-white big band, while a white impostor claimed to be the saxophonist on stage.
In addition to restricting Ngozi’s ability to express himself artistically, this discriminatory regulation kept him from receiving the proper credit and payment for his contributions. Despite the commercial success of his famous 1968 record Yakhal’ Inkomo, which documented the challenges of Black artists under apartheid, Ngozi did not receive much financial gain because copyright protection was not in place. Ngozi’s experience illustrates the systemic abuses that Black artists experienced: their rights disregarded and their artistic work exploited.
According to an article in The Funambulist, apartheid-era musicians faced severe restrictions. The Separate Amenities Act, coupled with the Group Areas Act and pass laws of the early 1950s, imposed stringent mobility constraints. To move freely, musicians needed a ‘day pass’ or ‘night pass’ and had to adhere to a mandatory 10pm curfew, referenced in the African Jazz Pioneers’ song Ten Ten Special. These interconnected laws stifled artistic collaboration, social cohesion and overall freedom.
Before the country gained its independence, Black artists in South Africa worked in a closed-off environment with almost no copyright protection, leaving them open to exploitation and receiving only small compensation for their artistic efforts. This harsh environment not only suppressed artistic expression, but also failed to give musicians the recognition they deserved for their contributions.
Contemporary resonance
The legacy of apartheid-era struggle music continues to resonate with contemporary artists. One of these is Johannesburg-based musician Ofentse Sebula, who attests to this enduring impact. “The legacy of the struggle music from the apartheid era plays a significant role in my music, as I too share the same sentiments,” he says. “The sentiments I share with apartheid-era musicians include resilience, cultural pride and a commitment to authentic emotional expression. Growing up in democratic South Africa, my music reflects on our nation’s complex past, its ongoing impact and the hopes for a unified future.”
Sebula emphasises that music from that era transcended mere entertainment: “It was a voice of the people, reflecting the times they lived in,” he says. Sebula’s own music may not be overtly political, but he acknowledges the importance of storytelling through song. “My music isn’t always in line with political issues as before [in] the apartheid era, but the goal is to tell my stories and remind people that we’re still going through the same battles.”
Meet Ofentse Sebula, a composer, creator and visionary. Photo: Supplied
Music promoting social justice and resistance was particularly targeted by the apartheid administration’s severe censorship laws. Politically charged songs that dealt with issues of injustice and inequality caused artists like Hugh Masekela, Miriam Makeba and Brenda Fassie to be targeted, censored and sometimes overtly mistreated by the apartheid government. For instance, Makeba’s song Pata Pata was banned from radio stations due to its alleged anti-apartheid sentiments, which restricted her ability to perform for a larger audience in South Africa.
Similarly, Fassie’s song I’m a Good Woman tackled themes of empowerment and defiance in the face of oppression, marking her as a voice for marginalised people. Although the song was not overtly political in comparison to some protest songs, Fassie’s bold expressions of resilience were interpreted as a challenge to the status quo. Radio stations banned her song Black President, which was a tribute to Nelson Mandela, for its anti-apartheid connotations. The government kept a close eye on Fassie’s activities, making it difficult for her to express herself freely.Masekela also suffered greatly because of his musical advocacy. His popular anti-apartheid protest song, Bring Him Back Home (Nelson Mandela), demanded the release of Mandela, who had been detained by the government since 1962. The song, composed and recorded during Masekela’s exile, rose to fame and became an unofficial anthem of the anti-apartheid struggle. The upbeat tune, with its strong chords and trumpet riffs, masked a pointed political statement that directly challenged the South African apartheid government. The fact that musicians jeopardised their freedom and careers to speak out against injustice underscores the complex relationship between politics and music.
Lack of legal protection
Musicians frequently found themselves in a vulnerable position during the apartheid era due to the lack of strong legal protections for their artistic creations. At the time, the Copyright Act of 1978 offered creators limited rights and failed to address the specific challenges faced by South African artists, particularly Black musicians. Although the act was meant to protect intellectual property, it operated within a framework that largely ignored the systemic inequities of the apartheid system.
A glaring example was the ‘Lion Trial’, involving the globally famous song The Lion Sleeps Tonight, originally written by Solomon Linda. Despite the song’s enormous financial success, Linda received little recognition or compensation, exposing the exploitative practices that thrived under the apartheid-era copyright regime. The law’s focus on formal, written agreements and legal representation left many black musicians – who often had limited access to legal resources – vulnerable to exploitation by record companies and intermediaries.
In addition, the harsh restrictions placed on artistic expression by the apartheid administration meant musicians were forced to communicate their discontent using subtle themes, risking further marginalisation. In the end, Black artists were not protected by the 1978 Copyright Act, which was meant to update South Africa’s copyright regulations. Significantly, the Act denied many Black artists the right to their previously created works, because it did not offer retroactive protection for works created before 1978.
Unfair ownership arrangements favoured record companies and publishers owned by white people, leaving Black musicians open to exploitation due to a lack of effective enforcement measures and restricted access to the legal system. Neither did the Act address cultural appropriation, through which white artists make money from traditional Black music without acknowledgment or payment.
These flaws led to the exploitation of Black artists’ creations, a loss of royalties and creative control, and relatively little acknowledgement. The shortcomings of the 1978 Copyright Act necessitated the revolutionary shifts that came with the emergence of a democratic society, in which the defence of artists’ rights and reform of copyright were top priorities.
Protecting artists’ rights
The democratic era has introduced stronger legal frameworks that protect intellectual property, enable artists to defend their rights, and promote a more egalitarian music industry. These advancements show the vital role copyright plays in sustaining musicians’ livelihoods and fostering innovation in South Africa’s diverse musical landscape
Sebula acknowledges the significant progress made in protecting artists’ rights. “I haven’t stumbled upon challenges when it comes to full control of my music and its ownership,” he says, recognising that this is largely due to the advancements made since apartheid. “I believe this is because post-apartheid South African artists have experienced increased autonomy in the production and ownership of their music, also thanks to organisations such as Samro [South African Music Rights Organisation] and Mpasa [Music Publishers Association of South Africa],” he says. Sebula’s experience highlights the transformative impact of democracy on the music industry, with artists now enjoying greater creative control and financial benefits.
Ofentse Sebula, bringing jazz to life, one note at a time. Photo: Ezra Selulu/Supplied
Record companies and the government organisations that had previously controlled the intellectual property and copyrights of many songs were overthrown, giving Black South African musicians more freedom to create and own their music when apartheid ended. The Copyright Amendment Act of 2019, which attempted to improve the protection of authors’ rights and remedy some of the injustices ingrained under apartheid laws, is a prime example of this change. In contrast to the 1978 Copyright Act, the new regulations improve intellectual property protections and support equitable compensations for artists.
Tsenolo Ntsane, operations manager at Mpasa and a renowned songwriter, underscores the vital significance of copyright protection for musicians. “Copyright is essential for safeguarding artists’ rights and ensuring they receive fair compensation for their work,” she emphasises.
As a champion of music, Ntsane, also known as Nolo Harmony, has navigated both the performance and regulatory sides of the industry. Her passion for music began in high school, when she developed a love for song writing. Ntsane licensed her songs at a young age and pursued music contract law in her studies.
She stresses the transformative power of copyright knowledge for musicians. “Understanding copyrights is the very thing that can help a musician create a profitable career and that’s why it is so important,” she says. This insight stems from her unique blend of artistic experience and regulatory expertise. At Mpasa, Ntsane seeks to contribute to the value of artists’ work. Through partnerships with stakeholders, Mpasa aims to safeguard musicians’ rights and foster a fair, profitable environment.
Artists who do not copyright their work face potential revenue loss, lack of recognition and exploitation, she says. Without protection, musicians risk losing ownership and control over their creations and how their music is used and distributed.
One song, two rights
“When somebody creates a song, two rights are born,” Ntsane says. “The first is the master right, which refers to the actual sound recording of the song. This right is controlled by either the artist or the record label and generates income through mechanical royalties.
“The second right is the publisher’s right, pertaining to the composition itself – the lyrics and melody. This right represents the individual creative work underlying the sound recording, earning performance royalties whenever the song is performed publicly, played on the radio, or used in a live setting.”
Ntsane emphasised that this knowledge is particularly crucial in South Africa, where historical injustices have left a lasting impact on the music industry. “During apartheid, many Black artists were disenfranchised and lacked understanding and access to these rights, often losing control and revenue from their creative work,” she says.
To address this legacy, Mpasa prioritises empowering its members through education. “We recognise the historical disparities and strive to bridge the knowledge gap,” Ntsane says. “Through regular webinar sessions and workshops, our members gain a deeper understanding of music copyright, mastering the intricacies of master and publisher rights to safeguard their creative and financial interests.” By fostering awareness and expertise, Mpasa aims to ensure South African artists, particularly those from historically marginalised groups, can protect their intellectual property, secure fair compensation, and build sustainable careers in the music industry.
“South African musicians need to adjust to the changing landscape of the music industry as streaming services and digital platforms do, all the while fighting for just recompense and the defence of their rights,” Ntsane says. “While post-democracy laws have made a great deal of progress, there are still many challenges in the way of long-term success, which means that attempts to empower artists and increase their visibility in a more competitive market must continue.”
South Africa’s musical journey reflects its complex history and vibrant democracy. Visionary artists like Ngozi, Masekela and Fassie defied apartheid’s censorship and exploitation. Today, Samro and Mpasa champion artists’ rights, allowing musicians like Sebula the freedom of not experiencing challenges when copyrighting their music.
The Copyright Amendment Act of 2019 has improved protection for authors’ rights, addressing historical injustices. As the music industry continues to evolve, Ntsane says Mpasa “will continue to prioritise education and empowerment, ensuring artists can protect their intellectual property and secure fair compensation.”
FEATURED IMAGE: Lost in the melody. Photo by: Katlego Mtshali
From the highs of lifting the Africa Cup of Nations at the FNB stadium to the lows of a false celebration in Nelspruit in 2012 when Pitso Mosimane’s team thought they had qualified for the finals after misreading the rules, South Africa’s football development has experienced mixed fortunes since 1994.
The year is 1996. The FNB Stadium is filled to the brim with a crowd of screaming fans, all different races and genders, but all adorned in South Africa’s bright green and yellow. Banners fly and the stadium shakes with the sheer force of the home crowd. Bafana Bafana have just become the champions of Africa. Football has done the impossible and brought a troubled nation together. The country’s first footballing victory under democracy could be something straight out of a movie.
In the years preceding this victory, the thought of a multiracial crowd cheering for the country’s football team seemed unimaginable; in the years since, the same may still be said. 2024 marks 30 years since South Africa gained freedom from the oppressive apartheid regime. 1994 marked the end of an era of segregation and mistreatment, ushering in what was meant to be an age of reconciliation and unity. The transition to a democratic country meant that all aspects of life were set to change, from education to policy – and even sports. Football did not escape this transition and faced its own fair share of transformation in attempts to truly reflect the ‘new South Africa’.
Football has always been a massive part of South African culture. Like many other sports it is seemingly a perfect way to unite a nation. However, due to the apartheid regime, South Africa has not always experienced the benefits of footballing unity.
The streets of Johannesburg have seen the soles of a million shoes and just as many soccer boots. From Doctor Khumalo to Relebohile Mofokeng, football fields across the city have seen the growth of the sport and its players alike.
A group of boys at an afternoon training session in Sandton, Johannesburg. Photo: Kamogelo Kungwane
Football in South Africa before 1994
In South Africa, football goes by many names: ‘football’, ‘soccer’ and ‘diski’, to name a few. Its many monikers denote the reach of the sport countrywide. Before the onset of democracy in 1994, football was still a widely played sport, but it was structured very differently to how it is now.
The divisions in South African society during this time applied to more than just where to eat or where to shop: they placed black, Coloured, and Indian footballers at the foot of the banquet table, left to eat the crumbs from their white colleagues. They could not play alongside white players, rent out football fields or, sometimes, earn money for playing. This made football political, forcing these groups to fight against this mistreatment by forming the South African Soccer Federation in 1951.
During this time, the violence in South Africa was all-consuming and in 1961 the international community placed a sports boycott on South Africa. This left the country out of international tournaments and forced competition inwards, allowing for the growth of local football. The formation of teams like Kaizer Chiefs, Moroka Swallows and Orlando Pirates was a light in the dark, illuminating the future of football for black South Africans. These clubs forged a new path for the sport to develop in their communities. This culture created the National Soccer League (NSL), which followed non-racial policies and advocated for the sports boycott to continue. These policies ultimately built the South African Football Association (SAFA), which would go on to govern football across the country to this day.
These developments and the end of apartheid led to one of the country’s biggest footballing moments: the 1996 Africa Cup of Nations (Afcon).
Bafana Bafana and AFCON 1996
At the 1996 Afcon final the excitement of the home crowd was palpable; the stadium packed to the rafters with every kind of South African. Race did not matter when the country was at the cusp of such an iconic moment and the diversity in the team drove this point home.
This integrated South African national team was formed in 1992 after a 1-0 victory against Cameroon, a year before the end of the sports boycott. The Afcon victory was a step in the right direction for South African football; a beacon of light for a unified country after a time of struggle. This era showed the country’s ability to dominate in the footballing world – a motivation to players across the country.
One such player was Joel ‘Fire’ Masilela.
Masilela is a legend of South African football, and his national team debut came just two years after the Afcon win. He still thinks highly of his time in the Bafana Bafana squad. “It was an honour and privilege for each and every player when you were called to represent your country,” he says.
Masilela went on to forge an amazing career, playing for top-flight Premier Soccer League (PSL) teams like Mamelodi Sundowns until his retirement in 2004. He has since become a development football coach, honing the skills of young players so they can one day walk the path he illuminated.
‘No DNA, just RSA’
On the football field, South Africa seemed to be taking giant leaps forward and zero steps back: the winning streak was undeniable. When Bafana Bafana was able to participate in international competitions, local teams followed suit and played in international club competitions.
In 1995, Orlando Pirates won the CAF African Champions Cup, which featured clubs from around Africa. Orlando Pirates was the first team from Johannesburg to win this trophy. Its squad embodied the new multicultural approach, including wo white players, Gavin Lane and Mark Fish, a Coloured player called Brandon Silent, and a lineup of black players. At this point, there was ‘no DNA, just RSA’ because the wins kept on coming.
In the wake of Bafana Bafana’s Afcon victory, smaller local football clubs were also beginning to improve and adapt to the multiracial culture that the country was moving towards and, in 1996, the South African PSL was formed.
A sign at the PSL Head Office in Johannesburg. Photo: Kamogelo Kungwane
These strides forward seemingly marked the beginning of a fruitful and exciting time for South African football and local Johannesburg clubs, but the success did not last for too much longer. Since Afcon 1996, South Africa has qualified for only a few international competitions, but has not won any more trophies. Bafana Bafana has failed to make an impact in the World Cup beyond their participation in 1998 and 2002 and their default qualification in 2010 as hosts. A seemingly strong national team was reduced to pieces as a result of lack of development.
Although the country was facing trouble on the international football stage, club football continued to improve. The PSL continued to grow, and its increasing commercial power made it a lucrative field for sponsors, players and media partners.
The economy of football
Money makes the world go round, and that is still true on the football field. The business of football is a profitable endeavour: football teams and leagues can make money from sponsorships, broadcast rights and ticket sales. With the inception of the PSL in 1996, the league received a title sponsorship from Castle Lager. This enabled the league to pay teams, secure venues and cover operational costs to keep the league running. At a team level, clubs make their money from ticket and merchandise sales, as well as sponsorships.
Football is an economy booster because of the other businesses that benefit from its operations. From the women who spend hours cooking meals to sell outside stadiums, to the hotels that sell out during cup finals, football offers a lot of money to the surrounding community. However, it may not always be profitable.
It is no secret that in South Africa football is a predominantly black sport. From the coaches to the players to the supporters, the majority of the industry is carried on the backs of black people. Economically, this may pose a challenge because black people in South Africa tend to be the most impoverished. This is a direct contrast to sports with more support from white people, like rugby or cricket, which can make more money due to their spectators’ class.
PSL chief operating officer Ronnie Schloss says the league is aware its audience may not be as affluent as supporters of other sports and that it prices the games more fairly. “We can’t do what rugby does, because the majority of our spectators can’t afford it,” Schloss says. He emphasises that football is a big part of the black community and the PSL believes that it owes it to them to make the game accessible.
Johannesburg’s role in football
Johannesburg is a big part of South African footballing culture. Of the 43 football stadiums in the country, 13 of them are in the greater Johannesburg area. The city is home to numerous football clubs and has been for decades. Orlando Pirates, Kaizer Chiefs and Moroka Swallows are just a few of the legendary teams that paved the way for the game to flourish in South Africa.
Orlando Pirates was founded in Orlando, Soweto in 1937 and has solidified itself as a core part of the football legacy of Johannesburg and South Africa at large. The club has provided many of its stars to the national team and has been a decisive marker in the development of football in South Africa. Their Soweto rivals, Kaizer Chiefs, have managed a similar feat from before1994 to beyond. This marks Johannesburg as a centre for football in South Africa, with just these two clubs having more than 10 million fans and 130 trophies between them.
Both clubs have invested heavily in developing young footballers by founding their own academies and Pirates even host their own youth football tournament, called the Pirates Cup.
Astroturf football training facilities in Sandton, Johannesburg. Photo: Kamogelo KungwaneA group huddle before the beginning of a training session. Photo: Kamogelo Kungwane
Kaizer Chiefs’ corporate communications officer, Vina Maphosa, explains how the club approaches development. “We develop players to not only be footballers: we encourage them to study and go to school… Football and footballers impact society because people look up to them and they are celebrated in communities,” he says.
This holistic approach to development is meant to create well-rounded players who can add positively to society, while still dominating the football field. In recent years, football development has become a big priority. In 2017, SAFA Gauteng launched the Gauteng Development League (GDL), which currently consists of 18 clubs per age group. The GDL is the top flight for development football in Gauteng, and 12 of the 18 teams are based in Johannesburg, once again highlighting the city’s footballing dominance, even at the development level.
What does football’s future hold?
Football seems to be experiencing growth in both support and performance. According to Eighty20, in the past year, 5 million South Africans have watched a football match in some capacity. This shows the level of support people are giving to the sport, which is important given how integral this is to the economy of the game. These numbers are further bolstered by the PSL’s viewership reaching new heights in the 2023-24 season, with the Premiership being the most-watched sporting event by South Africans, apart from Afcon 2023.
South Africa also experienced a high in their performance in Afcon 2023, placing third after a string of impressive displays. The team showed renewed confidence and a stronger performance than in other recent international competitions. This is likely due to growing financial investments in football and youth development. Many of the players in the squad were from youth development clubs in Johannesburg and the quality of football is set to increase further with more investment in youth development.
The football landscape in Johannesburg and South Africa at large has evolved since 1994 and this looks likely to continue in the coming years. Schloss shares the PSL’s goals for South African football in the future. “We are currently ranked in the top leagues in the world from an administration point of view,” he says. “Our biggest goal is to try and encourage that the standard of play is improved, the standard of officiating is improved, and we can get to a situation where the clubs own their own grounds… because none of them owns their own stadiums.”
These are simple goals, but they reflect an intention to see football continue its upward trajectory and solidify itself as an integral part of South African culture.
Football can be considered the heart and soul of South Africa’s community. It has become a cornerstone for the black community in Johannesburg and the country at large. But recognising black people as the core of South African football places a slight damper on the magic of the moment at the widely celebrated 1996 Afcon victory. Seeing a sea of different races gathered to support a predominantly black sport seems as far-fetched now as it must have back then. Despite this, it is still incredible to note the legacies of Johannesburg’s teams, the growth of football among the public, and the promising future that continues to be built for the beautiful game.
FEATURED IMAGE: A group of young people at their football training session. Photo: Kamogelo Kungwane
Thirty years since the dawn of democracy, inequality still lingers beneath Johannesburg’s surface, with township residents often marginalised from the city’s wealth. Despite systemic barriers, individuals in these communities are carving their own paths to a better life.
In Johannesburg, the city of gold, the promise of economic prosperity has long been out of reach for many people. Thirty years into democracy, inequality still lingers beneath the surface, with township residents often on the margins of the city’s wealth. But against these odds, people in the townships are making their own paths to a better life. This investigation delves into how, despite systemic barriers, township residents are creating economic opportunities and reshaping their communities from within.Under apartheid, Johannesburg’s wealth was reserved for a select few and the city’s Black population was subjected to harsh restrictions like the Native Labour Regulation Act of 1911. This law required Black workers to carry passbooks, limiting their movement and employment opportunities. As the city’s economy flourished, Black people were trapped in poverty, unable to share in the wealth that their labour helped to create.
Building a life from nothing
Beauty Mkhari, a street vendor in Orlando East. Photo: Lona Sokanyile
Olagh Thandi Shabangu (52) sits on her stoep in Daveyton, remembering her journey from Mozambique to South Africa in the late ’90s with mixed emotions. “I came to this country with nothing but the clothes on my back,” she recalls, her voice steady, yet laced with memories of struggle. “It wasn’t easy.”
Arriving in South Africa as apartheid was nearing its end, Shabangu faced overwhelming odds as a foreign national without formal documentation. “Getting a job was almost impossible,” she says. “I didn’t have papers, so no one would hire me in the city. The police would stop me, but I always managed to escape. It was hard to be both a woman and a foreigner in those days.”
Shabangu found work on a secluded farm, far from the prying eyes of law enforcement. “The farmer didn’t care where we came from, as long as we did the work. We worked in the meat department, making sure it didn’t spoil. That was my life for a while. We were away from the city, hidden from the police, but also far from any real opportunities.”
The arrival of democracy brought a chance for change. When Shabangu finally gained her South African citizenship, she describes it as “a breath of fresh air”. But her struggles to find sustainable employment continued. “I had no formal education and it was difficult to compete,” she says. “While many men went to work in the mines, township women had few opportunities.”
With her new documentation, Shabangu used her experience in the meat industry to secure a job at a store called Meat and More, which has since become OBC, in Daveyton. “I thought I had made it,” she laughs, shaking her head. “But even when I was promoted, the salary wasn’t enough. I was raising two kids as the breadwinner, and I realised I needed more.”
That’s when Olagh decided to take her future into her own hands. Drawing from her family’s entrepreneurial spirit, she became a street vendor, selling fruits and vegetables. “I grew up in a business-minded family,” she says. “So, I knew that was the path for me, and I need to think of ways to survive to raise my children.”
Her two children are now the pride of her life. “My son is a postgraduate and my daughter just started her first year of university this year. When I look at them, I see the change democracy has brought. Back then, Black people couldn’t even dream of becoming professionals like doctors or engineers, but now, we have broken those barriers.”
As Shabangu reflects on the years gone by, she recognises the progress, but remains grounded in the reality of the struggle. “There’s change, yes. But we must fight for our place in this world. I built my life with my own hand, and that’s something I’m proud of.”
From the apartheid years to the promise of democracy Shabangu has seen it all. Her story is a testament to the power of perseverance and the importance of taking control of one’s destiny. “We’ve come far,” she says, “but the journey is far from over.”
Street of Olando East in Soweto. Photo: Lona Sokanyile
The democratic promise: 30 years later
When democracy arrived in 1994, it brought with it a wave of optimism. The ANC, under Nelson Mandela’s leadership, promised to dismantle the economic and social injustices that had defined Johannesburg’s past. Job creation was one of the golden promises. Johannesburg’s role as an economic hub has remained central to the country’s development. The ANC’s manifesto was clear: building a dynamic and growing economy that would prioritise employment, housing and education.
Today, 30 years into democracy, Johannesburg still holds its place as South Africa’s financial capital. The city is home to high buildings that pierce the sky and bustling markets line the streets, but for many of its residents the dream of economic equality remains distant.The latest Quarterly Labour Force Survey from Statistics South Africa shows that unemployment in Gauteng, where Johannesburg is located, has risen to 39.2% in the second quarter of 2024, up from 38.9% earlier in the year.
Unemployment is particularly severe, with nearly half of the city’s labour force struggling to find work. This paints a grim picture, as Johannesburg’s reputation as an economic hub contrasts sharply with the lived reality of its residents. In the city’s sprawling townships and inner-city neighborhoods, job seekers are faced with limited opportunities. The unemployment rate represents more than just statistics: it tells the stories of skilled graduates unable to secure work and families left without a breadwinner. Despite the wealth that still flows through the city, many people feel that the promise of democracy has not been fully achieved.
Township entrepreneurs: Struggle and resilience
Growing up in Mabopane, north of Pretoria, Thabang Mothibe (26) experienced the challenges that many young people face today. Raised by parents determined to make ends meet, he witnessed the weight of economic strain from a young age. After completing his mechanical engineering studies at Tshwane South College, Mothibe was confronted by the harsh reality of South Africa’s job market. Like many Black graduates, he found himself without opportunities, staring down the same hardships that democracy had promised to overcome.
Yet, Mothibe’s story is one of resilience and reinvention. During his studies, he realised that there was more to life than chasing a paycheck. Acknowledging his disadvantaged background, he knew he would have to make his own way. In 2020, during the height of the covid-19 pandemic, Mothibe took his first steps into the world of entrepreneurship – an ambitious leap into the insurance industry. But the pandemic brought immense challenges, particularly for young entrepreneurs like him.
The pandemic forced Mothibe to go back to the drawing board. Undeterred by setbacks, he began another venture, selling meat to stokvels in Mamelodi and Orange Farm. “I knew I had to make sure my dreams as an entrepreneur didn’t die,” he said. However, the learning curve in this industry was exceptionally steep. He had to buy equipment to ensure that the meat was transported safely in refrigerated coolers. In addition, load-shedding exacerbated his challenges. “My customers started complaining about the smell of the meat,” Mothibe says, leading him to make the difficult decision to stop this hustle.
Mothibe’s experience mirrors the broader struggles of many young people in Johannesburg, where high unemployment and daily economic challenges persist. Despite his efforts and the resilience shown by many people like him, the dream of economic equality promised by democracy remains elusive. For many people, the high-rises and stock exchange of Johannesburg are symbols of an economy they are yet to fully participate in.
Thirty years later, the democratic promise feels like a distant memory. For entrepreneurs like Mothibe, it’s not only about navigating the pressures of running a business, but surviving in a system where opportunities are unevenly distributed. Yet, like many of his peers, Mothibe continues to hold onto hope. His journey may not have gone as planned, but his determination reflects the spirit of a generation that refuses to let the promise of democracy die. After several of his entrepreneurial ventures failed, Mothibe faced a critical moment, one in which many people might have lost hope. But instead of surrendering to defeat, he reached out to Aubrey Maphata, a seasoned business owner in the construction industry.
Maphata took Mothibe under his wing, offering mentorship and guidance. With time, Thabang not only found his footing in the construction sector but thrived. Today, he runs his own company, Gree and Meca, in Johannesburg, a testament to his resilience and unwavering determination to succeed. Mothibe’s voice carries the weight of both frustration and hope as he reflects on his journey as a young entrepreneur. “I wish the government could fund local businesses,” he says, his tone a mix of passion and weariness. “As young entrepreneurs, it’s difficult to get funding from commercial banks.” His words reveal a harsh truth that many people like him face – a dream that feels just out of reach, hindered by the lack of financial support.
Mothibe acknowledges that the government has made efforts to create policies aimed at job creation, but he believes there is more to be done. “They’ve tried to instill policies to support local businesses,” he says, “but it is not enough. There is more to be done than just hosting business workshops for young entrepreneurs. Workshops are not helping: businesses need funding.”
Meanwhile, Nyasha Simelane (26) is also a beacon of inspiration. Simelane, the founder and chief executive of the social app Safe Space, recalls the moments that shaped his path. “What has inspired me to start a business is my ability to lead,” he says, with determination in his eyes. “Being placed in positions where I can lead and seeing people respond positively – that’s what gave me the confidence to take the leap into entrepreneurship.” His words reflect a deep-seated belief in the power of influence and responsibility, particularly as a Black person navigating the complexities of a changing society.
“I have so many ideas I want to share with the world,” Simelane continues, a smile spreading across his face. “I thought, why not start a business? I really trust myself.” His enthusiasm is infectious, and you can sense the fire that drives him. Simelane’s journey hasn’t been without its challenges, but he embraces them wholeheartedly. “I love rejection. I love failure because I’ve always managed to bounce back,” he says, emphasising the resilience that has become a cornerstone of his entrepreneurial spirit.
Simelane’s vision for Safe Space is rooted in creating a platform through which individuals can connect, share and find support in a safe environment.
Creating jobs: who’s responsible?
To address the city’s unemployment crisis, the Gauteng provincial government has introduced programmes like Nasi Ispani, designed to help young, unemployed people find jobs. Although this initiative has offered hope, it remains limited in scope. Gauteng premier Panyaza Lesufi recently acknowledged these limitations, saying, “This is the nature of these programmes – they are not long term. And why they are not long term is because we do not have the financial muscle to absorb everyone.”
The debate over job creation in Johannesburg extends beyond government programmes. In a recent national assembly discussion, Dr Michael Cardo of the Democratic Alliance (DA) argued that the government cannot create jobs on a large scale. “The government itself cannot create jobs at scale – that’s the private sector’s role,” Cardo said. He emphasised that for the private sector to thrive and generate employment, the government needs to focus on providing a stable fiscal framework, improving infrastructure, ensuring safety and security, and enhancing the education system to produce a skilled workforce.
Johannesburg’s future, then, may depend not only on government intervention, but also on creating an environment in which the private sector can thrive. However, this also requires tackling systemic issues such as corruption, poor governance, and the inefficiency of public services – issues that have hindered the city’s potential for decades.
Despite its challenges, Johannesburg remains central to South Africa’s economy. The city still generates a significant portion of the country’s gross domestic product and its industries – from mining and finance to manufacturing and IT – continue to provide opportunities.
As Johannesburg moves forward, its success will depend on finding a balance between government policies, private-sector investment, and addressing the structural issues that continue to hold back its residents. The city’s future remains bright, but the journey toward fulfilling the promises of 1994 is far from complete.
Johannesburg’s future is delicately balanced. The city’s towering skyline symbolises potential, but for many people, the ground beneath their feet remains shaky. As the government grapples with unemployment and inequality, the private sector’s role becomes ever more critical. Yet, until systemic issues like corruption and poor governance are addressed, the dream of true economic equality remains just that.
FEATURED IMAGE: Woman coming from a stokvel meeting. Photo: Lona Sokanyile
Journey through the heartbeat of Johannesburg’s theatre scene, as we trace its transformation from a tool of resistance under apartheid’s harsh censorship to a thriving space for diverse voices and stories in South Africa’s democracy.
The lights dimmed as two figures stood centre stage, gazing over at the crowd. A single spotlight cast long shadows and, for a moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, the haunting notes of Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika rose, not from a choir, but from the audience itself. It was a song that once whispered defiance in theatres, now sung freely in places providing a platform for stories of pain and success.
I was a part of that audience, sitting in the intimate space of Soweto Theatre, where the walls felt close and the stage small. We had just finished watching Woza Albert! and the air felt thick with unspoken words. The crowd, usually eager to fill the space with chatter, sat in heavy silence; heads bowed slightly, eyes distant, as if each person were lost in the story they had just witnessed. You could almost feel the weight of history settling over the room, as everyone absorbed the gravity of what had just happened.
When we sang, we sang with heart and, as the final notes of the national anthem faded, Hamilton Dlamini and Thulani Mtsweni quietly left the stage. The audience rose to their feet, their applause filling the theatre in a wave of gratitude. The woman standing next to me quietly wiped away a tear, while my friend cheered at the top of his lungs. It was an electric moment – one that we all knew would stay with us. It was more than just a performance: it was a story that mattered.
These are the kinds of stories that still resonate in the democratic South Africa of today. Yet, although they remain ingrained in the nation’s cultural memory, the word “democracy” is now more often tied to thoughts of politics – elections, government promises, and the ongoing fight for basic human rights like clean water and education.
Among these vital issues, we often forget the profound role art played in winning our freedom. Art, in its many forms, challenged societal norms and empowered black people to take agency over their lives.
Through art, stories of hope and resistance blossomed on stages on which actors dared to challenge apartheid’s brutality, feeding the spirit of a nation yearning for liberation. The names of photographers like Alf Khumalo, David Goldblatt and Sam Nzima often fade from memory, their lenses once capturing the soul of a nation’s struggle, now left in the shadows of history.
Writers like Steve Biko and Es’kia Mphahlele are often lost to time, their words once carrying the weight of a nation’s sorrow and hope, now drifting quietly through the corridors of memory.
Protest plays like Sarafina, once powerful voices against the injustices of apartheid, are now watched on Youth Day by parents and their teens – a fleeting moment of reflection before life carries on, as if the struggles they portray are distant echoes, easily set aside.
Protest theatre is a genre that emerged as a powerful force, distinct in its provocative and participatory nature. It stirred the soul, turning audiences from silent onlookers into fierce participants, igniting in them a fire for change and the will to fight for this.
As plays like Sophiatown unfolded on stage, it echoed to the streets of Soweto which erupted in flames when the young voices of the Soweto Uprising rose in defiance a decade prior. It was a gut-wrenching, yet beautiful moment of art and protest intertwining. As the screams echoed through the streets, voices rose from the stage. Though different in sound, they spoke the same language – delivering the same message. Theatre continues to serve as a mirror to society, reflecting its tensions and truths. But is its impact as powerful now as it was in the fight against apartheid? Does the taste of freedom still hold the same promise for South Africa’s people today? And how has the significance of theatre during apartheid evolved in contemporary times?
Theatre’s significance under apartheid
For Malcolm Purkey, renowned playwright of Randlords and Rotgut (1980), Sophiatown (1988), and Love, Crime and Johannesburg (2000), the significance of theatre as a vehicle for social change has always been undeniable. Sitting quietly among the vacant seats of the Wits Theatre, the founder of the Nunnery Theatre at Wits and its iconic box theatre recalled how his landmark play Sophiatown first found its voice at Junction Avenue Theatre.
The play draws from a poignant reality during apartheid. Based on the unique history of Sophiatown, a township where black people were allowed to own land, the play tells the true story of two Black writers who boldly advertised for a Jewish girl to live with them. This move challenged societal norms and the segregation laws of that time.
The opening scene creates the atmosphere with a soulful adaptation of Kofifi Sophia by the cast, with Mingus, one of the characters, sitting front and centre, his hat pulled low. His voice blends into the rising chorus as he states his claim: “We are staying here in Sophiatown.”
The other character, Jakes, a Drum magazine journalist, rises to speak, painting a picture of the heart of Sophiatown. He calls out its streets, the jazz legends and the political icons that walked on them, recalling the emotional energy and soul of a place both revered and targeted by the apartheid regime. It’s a declaration of identity, a memory of the township’s heart, and a warning of its looming erasure.
It is in moments like this – when theatre becomes a voice for the silence – that its role in history and today’s times is undeniable. When asked about theatre’s place in such crises, a quiet moment lingers before Purkey speaks. “I still believe that theatre has a right and a need to continue working, no matter what the state of the play is. And actually, if there are uprisings or, you know, revolutionary processes, theatre can play a part in that.”
Reflecting on theatre’s role in revolutionary processes brings to mind prominent venues like the Market Theatre. The theatre, originally built in 1913 in Johannesburg’s bustling Indian Fruit Market, took its name from this trading hub. In its transformation, it became known for something greater – internationally recognised as “The Theatre of Struggle”, a symbol of resistance against apartheid. The theatre defied the segregation laws of that time and dared to imagine a different South Africa.
Purkey recalls how the Market Theatre’s audience evolved, becoming a representation of the future the theatre-makers hoped to see – a diverse, non-racial crowd, hungry to see stories that represented their complex world. Who were these people? Where had they come from? What was it about their hunger that pushed them to seek storytelling?
“These people came to have their realities explained back to them,” Purkey remembers. They weren’t just entertained: they were challenged and enlightened by beautifully woven narratives, layered with wit and humour, despite the gravity of those times.
Long after the curtain call, these audience members would linger around in bars, filling the space with the clutter of glasses and the murmur of voices, sometimes slurred with drink, but always lively. It was more than just a bar – it was a forum, where political dreams, frustrations and a vision for a new future were debated into the early hours. Over the clinking of glasses and rising cigarette smoke, those conversations sparked with the same fire that lit the stage, painting futures that had not yet been written.
Although these conversations have long faded, the energy and ideas they birthed continue to ripple through time. The spirited debates and ideas of a new tomorrow may exist as echoes, but the desire for transformation has not been dimmed.
Instead, it has been passed down to a new generation – Gen Z – who find themselves at the start of their own defining moments. With their unique challenges, desires and visions, they stand prepared to rescript the narratives of the past and create new stories for the stage.
Gen Z: Rescripting the stage of change
Today, Generation Z, the digital natives, step into theatres, not to escape their world, but to transform it. In the 30 years since freedom was won, their stories grapple with modern struggles like LGBTQ+ rights, the #FeesMustFall movement, unemployment and the many challenges shaping young lives.
However, this generation, although present in the theatre world, does not make up a large percentage of the audience. In a Mail & Guardian article, titled ‘Theatre can return to grassroots’, several critical issues are highlighted about why theatre today may seem like it’s either facing a crisis or slowly fading away.
According to the article, one of the biggest problems is the lack of early exposure to theatre. Inside these theatres, seats once filled with different faces are now occupied by only a few people, many of them older, affluent individuals. The stories on stage are powerful, relevant – but something feels missing.
The kids from township schools aren’t there. The teachers didn’t bring them, because no school trips were arranged. The reason? Tight budgets and bus fares they can’t afford. Theatre, they believe, is for the elite. And so, the gap widens. Residents who live mere blocks away from the theatre see it as distant, unreachable. The stories might be theirs, but the stage feels foreign, inaccessible, built for others.
This is the growing silence that Gen Z has come accustomed to. Unlike the audience of the 1980s, who, as described by Purkey, needed theatre to reflect the struggles of their external world, today’s generation craves something more intimate. Rather than having the world explained to them, they seek an understanding of themselves.
A recent report in The Guardian found that one in three young people aged 18 to 24 are grappling with mental health challenges like depression and anxiety. As these numbers rise, so do questions of identity, purpose and belonging. This generation, confronted by a digital age that blurs the line between the real and the virtual, increasingly faces identity crises that deepen their desires for stories that speak directly to their internal struggles.
As Gen Z continues to search for stories that resonate with their internal struggles, the future of theatre must evolve to meet their unique needs.
Reimagining theatre: A path forward for a new generation
Lesedi Job (40) an award-winning theatre director, actress and voiceover artist is sitting in the drum room of the 10th floor of the University Corner Building. Job is also known for mentoring emerging artists and her advice to young creatives has always been simple: “Don’t chase the title. Society, especially with the rise of social media, pushes people to seek validation.”
Being in theatre is about doing the work: you will know if it’s truly for you before anyone tells you, Job emphasises. It is this wisdom, rooted in years of experience, that has shaped her approach to storytelling and mentorship alike.
Reflecting on the challenges theatre faces today, Job offered a compelling perspective. Ticket prices do not need to be lowered so theatre can become more accessible to people of all socioeconomic backgrounds; in her eyes, theatre is already affordable.
Job emphasises that reducing prices is not a solution, because at its core, theatre must still operate as a business and account for operational costs. Instead, what truly needs to be changed is how theatre is marketed – how it introduces itself to the public and how it calls to those people who have yet to experience its magic.
As she says this, a memory slips into my head. In the playwriting classes I attended during my undergraduate years, theatre’s lack of adequate advertising was often highlighted. One thinks of moments of driving along highways and seeing billboards dominated by banners promoting the latest Netflix series or adverts for consumer products. In contrast, a new play – particularly one that isn’t an adaptation of an apartheid-era classic or written and directed by a well-known figure – faces a far steeper climb to gain recognition. This highlights how much effort it takes for a fresh production to break through the noise and capture public attention.
Even without the widespread visibility of mainstream media, theatre’s role as a mirror to society remains as essential today as it was during apartheid. Although the world is no longer as deeply in touch with the medium as it once was, I believe theatre still holds the same powerful impact. It is finding its new voice in democracy, just as it decoded South Africa in a time of struggle.
Today, theatre aims to reflect who we are and seeks to explain the complexities of modern life back to ourselves. Although the taste of freedom may have shifted, the core, intention and heart of theatre remains the same.
FEATURED IMAGE: Joburg Theatre’s Instruments. Photo: Ofentse Tladi.
The right to food is enshrined in the South African Constitution, yet millions of people are still food insecure. In Jo’burg, hunger does not manifest evenly– it is a consequence of inequality, the ghost that haunts this metropolis.
Johannesburg has always been a city of extremes. It was never intended to be an equal city and today it still tears at the seams trying to accommodate the two extreme ends of the economic spectrum – and all the people who fall in between.
As a city that contains such a wide array of lifestyles, from the moneyed elite to people just scraping by, our culture reflects a swathe of differences, all with their own traditions, values and tastes. Nowhere is this more evident than in our food.
Perhaps this is why Jo’burg was voted the second-best city in the world for food in May 2024. There is a wealth of restaurants in Jo’burg that display the city’s diversity with their creative and delectable cuisine.
Time Out, which bestowed Jo’burg with this ranking, gave special mention to Braamfontein, ‘the pulse of the city’, for its food. Time Out recognised the ‘innovative ventures combining the forces of food and culture’ in the area.
Indeed, Braam has an abundance of phenomenal places to eat. But the award does not acknowledge that this is not the Braam most people experience.
For most South Africans, food is a tool of survival, not something to be savoured. For 63.5% of South African families, food insecurity is an everyday struggle.
In the four square kilometers of Braamfontein, the city’s vast gap between rich and poor is quite clear in the pervasive food inequality.
How is it that being able to eat is still a major hurdle for people living in the city – even for those living around a prestigious university and in a gentrified urban area?
The many faces of Braamfontein: the suburb as a case study
Braamfontein is a stellar example of the past 30 years of democracy distilled into one place. In the late ’90s, Braam was run down and tired, neglected in the face of all the overwhelming reworking that needed to be done by the new government.
But in 2002, the Johannesburg Development Agency embarked on a multimillion-rand regeneration programme for Braam, recognising its importance to Jo’burg as an economic hub.
Since then, Braam has bloomed: R4-billion of private investment has been poured into the area, and it has become the place to be for many young professionals with cash to burn.
To many Jo’burgers today, Braam is synonymous with trendy bars, beautiful street art and, of course, delicious food.
But Braam is so representative of post-apartheid South Africa because this change, although real, is limited – and only certain people get to bask in its glow.
On the outskirts of this shiny, new Braam, struggling students and residents still live – and still need to eat. What they have access to reflects dire levels of food insecurity and the unequal nature of access to food in South Africa.
The award-winning Salvation Cafe, and the sophisticated Olives & Plates both sit within Braam’s perimeters, small enclaves of cosmopolitan cuisine that in no way align with the average Braam resident’s wallet.
Around the corner and over the way are the everyday food spots that Braam residents actually frequent: fast-food joints, spaza shops and feeding schemes.
These are the many faces of Braamfontein, all painting a picture of the complex and devastating way that food accessibility still stands as a major marker of inequality, starkly segregating South Africans even today.
One of Braam’s most visited food spots – the Mcdonald’s on Jorissen. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Where convenience trumps all – your average spaza shop near Wits University. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
School kids stop for something to eat at one of the spaza shops in Braam. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Savouring the city
Remko van Niekerk is the co-owner of Salvation Cafe, which was established in 2006.
Salvation Cafe is nestled in the heart of 44 Stanley, among boutique stores and coffee shops. Van Niekerk calls it “an artisanal destination” – a place where people’s creations, including food creations, are treated like art.
As he sees it, “44 Stanley has mostly remained an oasis in the urban jungle of Jozi”, despite the changes in the area.
The café is a popular brunch spot under the cover of trees, surrounded by hanging pot plants, and complete with an outdoor fountain. Everything about it is meant to attract patrons from Westcliff and other affluent Northern suburbs.
Salvation Cafe sign. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
A full house at Salvation Cafe, Braamfontein Werf. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Elevenses at Salvation Cafe, featuring their iconic salmon eggs benedict. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Although Van Niekerk says gentrification has increased in the area, he and his staff have also had to deal with the infrastructure issues that plague Braam, like power and water outages.
To combat such expenses while still maintaining a profit, he says the restaurant’s “prices will just have to keep going up”, particularly given the need to pay for alternative energy sources like generators.
On top of this, Van Niekerk’s boss (and wife), chef Claudia Giannoccaro, “is not keen on using lower quality ingredients, thus prices will have to go up accordingly”.
Indeed, Salvation Cafe meals are nutritious, fresh and tasty, loaded with greens and healthy carbs. Their prices reflect this. Burgers range between R130 and R150, salads between R90 and R138, and most lunches cost about R118 (unless you want the teriyaki salmon, which is Salon Qualitaire).
A five-minute drive away on the quiet end of the University of the Witwatersrand (Wits) West Campus, Olives & Plates Wits Club and Conference is housed in a Transvaal vernacular building, with a gorgeous courtyard surrounded by rose bushes and, yes, a fountain.
It is run by sisters Litza Frangos and Andria Neophytou and their husbands, Apo and Dimitri.
The owners of Olives & Plates, who declined requests for interviews, have grown their business into a successful chain of restaurants after originally beginning as canteen caterers for Wits staff. The business was shut down during the #FeesMustFall protests, after which the owners decided to take the business in a different direction.
Inspired by the owners’ Greek roots, the restaurant focuses on elevating classic meals like toasted sandwiches and salads while adding a Grecian flair. Lunches here cost between R150 and R200. Expensive fillet steaks seem to be a speciality and are regular menu picks.
Lunch time at Olives&Plates on West campus, Wits University. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The pristine rose garden at Olives&Plates. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The indoor decor at Olives&Plates. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
Lunch fare at Olives&Plates. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
But a restaurant that charges R90 for a fruit salad is a bizarre sight on Wits campus, where students have little choice in what they eat and often go hungry.
So, although fresh food is delivered into Braam every day, the fridges of many students in residence sit empty. What this speaks to, and what the statistics reflect, is that food insecurity is clearly not an issue of supply, but an issue of access.
Walking the breadline
If you walk east from Olives & Plates for about 10 minutes, you will reach The Sanctuary, a beautiful white building that is home to the Wits Citizenship and Community Outreach (WCCO) programme. Every week, the WCCO feeds about 1,000 food-insecure students, who must stand in a long queue to receive their daily meal. Three days a week, the WCCO hands out food parcels of basic groceries to students in need.
Karuna Singh, the WCCO manager, says that in five years the organisation went from handing out “20 parcels to 3,000 parcels” every week.
With ever-rising food prices and stagnant grocery budgets, many students need extra help now more than ever. The National Student Financial Aid Scheme (NSFAS) grocery budget has increased only 10% (about R150) over the past four years, whereas food prices increased 50% during the same period.
Need far outweighs what the WCCO can provide, and even what it does offer depends on the tenuous supply of charitable donations. In fact, since 2017, the donations the WCCO has received have been halved as companies slowly pull back.
“The food bank is not sustainable; the hot meals are not sustainable,” Singh says. To mitigate this, the WCCO has set up food commons, growing vegetables around campus that give students food sovereignty and sustainable, fresh options.
One of the WCCO’s many mini veggie patches around campus at Wits. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The Wits communal veggie patch on East Campus. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The WCCO’s chronically low food stores. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The WCCO building. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
The students at the food bank are not destitute. Mostly, they are young people skating along the line of functional poverty; children of single parents or oldest children having to send some of their NSFAS money home each month.
Rivaldo Jantjies, a fellow journalism student at Wits, survives each month from the money his mom can send him. “I can only buy essentials, you know – noodles, bread, peanut butter, milk, sugar – the basic things I need to survive.”
“When it got to the point [at which] I no longer had those basic things, I would go to [the] WCCO,” he says.
Walking past students on campus, you might not see it, but “a lot of students are struggling”, Jantjies observes. “The lines [at the WCCO] are always long.”
Kea Maphila, an international relations honours student, spoke to the all-too-common experience of students in desperate situations while awaiting NSFAS funding.
“My first year, I only got approved in September”, she tells me. In the interim, she says her mom ‘was paying for my res and giving me allowance… It wasn’t a nice experience.’
Maphila’s situation was manageable, but for many students this would have been catastrophic.
NSFAS provides a stipend for groceries, which is usually about R1,650, but subject to change. “My budget is around R1,000,” Maphila says, which is “enough for groceries, but only for groceries”.
For Maphila, food insecurity is a consuming force, forcing students to prioritise their basic survival. “It’s stressful not knowing when your next meal is, but you’re supposed to be at class at 8am, concentrating,” she says.
Thoughtfully, she tells me: “It seeps into every area of your life… you can’t go on with the rest of your day. It removes so much integrity from a person.”
Integrity is a major part of food insecurity, particularly in a social environment like a campus; inequality among students is often emphasised by the type of food they can afford.
This leads back to basic economic inequality – which, in South Africa, is a racial issue, due to the enduring effects of apartheid.
Food insecurity does not exist in a vacuum and food inequality does not sit squarely within the confines of Braam. It is a countrywide problem – an unsolved one, despite promises and attempts by the government.
Zooming out: the economics of inequality
If someone is shopping on a monthly NSFAS allowance of R1,650, a South African Social Security Agency (SASSA) pension of R1,280, a monthly domestic worker’s salary of R3,349, or receives the national minimum wage of R,4400 a month, groceries in today’s economy are almost unaffordable.
This is for a basket of 28 items. But for a basket of just nine basic items (maize, margarine, peanut butter, bananas, potatoes, IQF chicken, black tea, sugar and long-life milk) the prices are still egregious.
Low-priced items will always be the first choice for poor people when buying food. Grocery stores are aware of this fact, enticing them to make their own brand of cheaper products for mass sale.
Closely related to the food insecurity and inequality conundrum is the persistent issue of nutrition insecurity. Across these four major grocery chains, the same product, due to their varying product value and price, will ultimately hold different nutritional values.
Woolworths margarine has the clear nutritional edge: it is the most energising and fatty margarine, but not too packed with sodium. It costs R32.99, in comparison to R17.99 at Checkers, the least nutritious option.
A research paper from the DSI-NRF Centre of Excellence in Food Security explains the reason behind this unfair price leveraging. The research team found that “the minimalist stance of the government” regarding grocery price setting has granted food companies free reign, with “big retail chains [emerging] as custodians of standards, dictating what should be supplied, how and in what form”.
This leaves South Africans vulnerable to the whim of these profit-seeking companies, which can and will change their prices at any time.
Compounding the threat of artificial scarcity is food scarcity brought about by general government incompetence.
Although South Africa produces enough food to feed its population, making it one of the most food secure countries in Africa, millions of people cannot eat. Dr Tobias Doyer, chief executive of Grain SA, says this is because “food security stands on two legs” – the security of access to food and the ability to obtain food – which the government has not provided for poor citizens.
“South African farmers produce enough food. The problem is that millions of South Africans have become poorer with less ability to buy food – causing famine,” Doyer says.
Groceries cost more and money buys less. In an unregulated food market and struggling economy, it follows that food insecurity is an offshoot of inequality, the most pervasive problem in South Africa today.
Thirty years into our democracy, our leadership has still not transformed the lives of the poor or addressed wealth inequality in any meaningful way. The fact that food insecurity is on the rise in South Africa is not an environmental problem, a social failing or the side effect of a global crisis. It is a major systematic failure.
FEATURED IMAGE: Signpost outside the WCCO building. Photo: Ruby Delahunt.
As an overwrought Johannesburg continues to address rampant apartheid hang-ups, the responsibility of ensuring citizens’ equitable access to mental healthcare often falls on under-resourced, overburdened, yet empathetic providersstruggling to meet demand.
If you’re looking for mental health support in Johannesburg, where exactly should you turn? Should you ask people you know for help – and would they judge if you did? Should you head to the nearest clinic, unsure if they’d assist with an invisible problem? What if you can’t afford help or medication? What if you’d rather look up alternative options online? How would you know the right service to select when seemingly infinite options appear in a Google search for “psychologist Johannesburg”? Although it’s been 30 years since the end of apartheid, South Africa’s young democracy is still trying to escape the shadows left by unjust and inhumane policies. These shadows not only obscure economic equality, but persist through generational trauma, haunting the collective psyche of South Africans to this day. To explore how Johannesburg, the country’s most-populated city, could set a national blueprint ensuring adequate mental healthcare access, we must first understand the people behind the service who navigate through troubled waters, trying to make a difference.
The promises of post-apartheid mental healthcare
For South Africa to overcome its traumatic past, it is essential for all citizens to have equitable access to mental healthcare. This principle was acknowledged by the country’s first democratically elected government and is clearly articulated in the policies it introduced.
On December 10 1996, then president Nelson Mandela signed the newly drafted South African Constitution, which became the “highest law of the land”, acting as the direct reference and regulator of all subsequent laws and policies. The Bill of Rights, contained in its second chapter, was drafted as a tool to define and monitor South African citizens’ human rights. Two enshrined rights that concern the state of mental healthcare are the right to “equality” and the right to “human dignity”. These are essential reference points, because they highlight the emphasis the government placed on ensuring that all citizens have equal access to adequate healthcare.
This broad emphasis on health was refined to address mental health concerns with the passing of the Mental Health Care Act in 2002. Among other stipulations, the Act promised to ensure that “various categories of mental health care users” were granted “[co-ordinated] access to mental health”. It also aimed to integrate mental healthcare “into the general health services environment”. For countless generations, previous governments blatantly mistreated the majority of South Africa’s citizens; in contrast, the introduction of these regulations acted as a sign of the new government’s solidarity with them.
However, despite these various renewed governmental policies, the tangible challenges that South Africans continue to face on a day-to-day basis, whether crime, economic pressures or systemic inequality, can muddy the public’s idea of mental healthcare. Because mental health is largely intangible, “fixing” a mental health issue feels more like a luxury than a necessity. This reticence to seek help means that 75% of South Africans actively struggling with mental illnesses do not receive the help they need. Meanwhile, the abundance of everyday stressors can be exacerbated by people’s mental health issues, trapping these seemingly dissimilar problems in an indefinite loop of re-aggravation.
Figure 1: A representation highlighting the disparity between need and access to mental healthcare in South Africa and Gauteng. This is layered on top of a silhouette of an old mining headgear on the outskirts of Johannesburg CBD, with an image of a brain intersecting it.
In 2023 South Africa ranked third last of all measured countries by average mental health quotient, which is an online assessment tool used to “provide [a] comprehensive assessment of mental wellbeing”. The Mental State of the World report also found that South Africa had the second-highest proportion of respondents classified as “distressed or struggling”. These rankings are concerning, particularly considering the emphasis placed on improving the quality of, and access to, mental healthcare in the previous decades.
The incongruence between well-meaning government policies introduced in the hopeful past, and the current reality of overwhelming mental health issues that have not been addressed, is a theme that has persisted in Johannesburg and manifests in damaging ways.
Life Esidimeni: How to learn from the recent past
There is no mental-health policy failure in Johannesburg in the past 30 years that stands out as glaringly as the Life Esidimeni tragedy, when the most vulnerable people in society were neglected and left to rot as a consequence of government action.
In 2015, the Gauteng department of health cut ties with the Life Esidimeni hospital, which provided extended care and housing to thousands of psychiatric patients. The department of health aimed to relocate these patients to various nongovernmental organisations (NGOs) across the province. This decision followed the department of health’srecently introduced Mental Health Policy Framework, which, from 2013 until 2020, aimed to develop “community-based” mental health services like NGOs by deinstitutionalising mental healthcare services like Life Esidimeni hospital. However, this decision could also be explained more simply by the department’s need to “save costs”.
In a vacuum, these promises of governmental support and collaboration with NGOs appear to be beneficial developments for impoverished communities struggling to provide adequate healthcare. However, in reality the NGOs these patients were relocated to were not properly screened, either being woefully under-equipped or “fraudulently approved” to house psychiatric patients. This ignored the department’s framework to ensure citizens with access to adequate mental health services through “[the establishment of] a monitoring and evaluation system”. This mass rehousing ultimately resulted in 144 psychiatric patients dying from neglect and improper care.
This lack of mental healthcare access and resources is particularly damning given that the Life Esidimeni tragedy occurred in Gauteng, South Africa’s wealthiest province, which houses 45% of all registered South African mental health professionals.
Figure 2: A graphic representing how even with the overwhelming proportion of mental health professionals operating in Gauteng, the province is still under-equipped. The graph is layered over an image of the Johannesburg skyline, with a gamma brain wave intersecting it.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, the department of health’s revised Mental Health Framework, has sought to address the issues overlooked by the previous framework, now promising to ensure that “community mental health services will be scaled up to match recommended national norms”. Recently, Gauteng MEC for health and wellness, Nomantu Nkomo-Ralehoko, also committed almost half a billion rand to “improve mental-healthcare infrastructure and services across the province” this financial year.
A renewed focus on mental-health services appears to be a step in the right direction for Johannesburg. However, will this promise truly serve to assist those on the front lines of mental healthcare in the city, or will it simply prove empty once again?
Policy and regulations touting to improve mental healthcare access are an important first step, but they cannot stand on their own. The implementation of these ideas in real-world scenarios is the true test and, to understand the context in which they are applied, one must first understand the different types of mental healthcare in Johannesburg, as well as the various challenges the people running these facilities face.
The pathways to recovery
Unlike physical ailments, because mental illnesses are often ‘invisible’, it can be more difficult to grasp and confront them. The first step on the road to recovery is identifying the problem and realising the need to address it. The next step is often the most challenging: accepting that doing so requires external help. It can prove difficult to ask for help due to a variety of cultural and societal norms that create stigmas around mental healthcare.
Mental health stigma is rife throughout society: one place where they commonly persist and do much harm is within tertiary institutions. Universities are educational spaces, meant to inform and prepare students to tackle problems they face in the real world. However, according to the University of the Witwatersrand’s (Wits) Counselling and Careers Development Unit (CCDU), it is an ongoing process to deconstruct these stigmas during the time in people’s lives when they need the most mental-health attention. According to a study on adolescent mental health, it was found that 75% of people with mental illnesses develop their disorder before turning 24.
Figure 3: A set of self-help tips geared towards vulnerable students. This guide is layered on top of a silhouette of Johannesburg’s skyline with an image of a smiling sun intersecting it.
The CCDU is a free counselling service offered to Wits students, aimed at addressing mental-health concerns, as well as providing academic assistance and preparing students for life outside campus.
“People think that when you are seen coming to CCDU… you have problems,” says Lynette Sikhakhane, a CCDU psychologist. Sikhakhane says what stops many students from seeking out the CCDU is that “culturally… there’s a belief that you man up” instead of admitting to needing help. Highlighting a major misconception about therapy, Sikhakhane states that many students expect therapy to instantly “fix” their problems, when it is actually an incremental process of enabling self-understanding.
CCDU advocacy team leader, Vinoba Krishna says the unit aims “to incorporate the voices of students” into the mental-health assistance it provides. Part of this is dispelling misinformed expectations around counselling and therapy through effective communication and psychoeducation, as outlined in Higher Health’s mental health programme.
Krishna states that, despite the CCDU’s best intentions, “we aren’t able to do the work just by ourselves”, because of a lack of direct funding for mental health. He also emphasises the need to collaborate with “different stakeholders on and off campus” to ensure the best results for students.
A CCDU sign outside of their head offices on Wits West Campus. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
The South African Depression and Anxiety Group (Sadag) has similar aspirations to help people in need and destigmatise mental health in South Africa in the face of limited resources. Sadag is a non-profit organisation that provides counselling via 24-hour toll-free emergency helplines and community-driven initiatives.
Fatima Seedat, a Sadag development manager, says that for all South Africans to have equitable access to mental healthcare “a collective effort” is required from the government, civil society and NGOs. Seedat argues it is impossible to follow the “beautiful strategic framework” outlined by the government when “every year the healthcare budget decreases”.
The lack of funding available to Sadag and other mental-health providers highlights the inequality of access South Africans face. Naledi Nzimande, a Sadag volunteer councillor, says that “the most challenging calls” are when she wants to refer callers to professional help, but there aren’t any mental health resources nearby. Stephanie Gladwin, also a Sadag volunteer councillor, reiterates that the level of mental healthcare individuals receive is, in many ways, directly tied to levels of income. “If you’ve got money, it’s not a problem… South Africa has some fantastic mental-health professionals – it’s just reaching them that’s the only issue,” she says.
SADAG Volunteer Counsellor, Tevin Sutcliffe, on the phone to a hotline caller. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
To combat this unequal access, Sadag has installed counselling containers in Diepsloot and Ivory Park, where they offer face-to-face counselling inside converted shipping containers. Seedat says this project aims “to fill the gap where it’s needed” in vulnerable spaces in Johannesburg.
When comparing mental-healthcare access in the public and private sectors, the disparity between funding and resources is stark. For example, about 80% of South African psychiatrists work in private practice. Although most South Africans access mental healthcare through the public sector, private mental-health services that offer specialised solutions to fill niche gaps in care are also important.
A video covering SADAG’s community based care and, specifically, their Counselling Container project. Video: Tristan Monzeglio
Private music therapist, Graeme Sacks, who operates in Parktown, believes his practice enables him to be sensitive to his client’s needs. “We’re all musical beings… [and music therapy] is a wonderful way to tap into people’s emotions,” he says.
As Sacks puts it, music therapy is an “evidence-based practice”, which uses “music towards clinical goals”, but in practice it’s less stringent. He says, as a music therapist, it’s about concerning yourself with “the situation that [clients have] grown up in” by “trying to find out about their culture, their musical taste”, without ever “imposing our stuff on them”.
This tailored approach to therapy offers clients individualised care and, if music therapy were available in the public sector, it would be a practical means to provide many South Africans with the specific help they require. Sacks says that “most medical aids don’t pay for arts therapies” and that, currently, “there are no arts therapists in public health”. This absence of access to arts therapy is a missed opportunity for the public healthcare system to provide equitable access to a niche form of specialised care.
Music Therapist, Graeme Sacks, playing piano in his office where he treats all manner of people with the power of music. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
Some specialised care in the public sector is available, at Johannesburg’s Tara Hospital, which is a publicly funded psychiatric hospital. It provides specialised care to referred patients who cannot be adequately treated at secondary and tertiary hospitals.
Senior occupational therapist and acting assistant director at Tara, Savannah Levi, believes that in Johannesburg, and South Africa at large, “What’s so hard about accessing mental healthcare, is that there are so many points, but none of those points correlate or integrate with each other.” Levi argues that the policies and ideas meant to integrate a variety of services are based on sound frameworks, but their lack of real-world implementation highlights the “disconnect” between theoretical and practical application.
Levi says Tara’s specialised service offers “a very protective environment for the patients”, meaning that sometimes they “don’t want to leave”. This highlights the benefit that specialised care affords people in need which, in theory, all citizens should have access to. However, Tara has only 140 beds and limited staff due to the high level of training requirements and capped job availability.
Outside of Tara Hospital in Hurlingham, with Sandton in the background. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
A new destination
Despite the government’s multiple continued failings in the broad mental-health landscape, hope still persists in those people willing to take up the struggle. Mental-healthcare providers aren’t required only to help people experiencing mental anguish, they’re expected to do so while juggling external economic and cultural challenges, on top of taking care of themselves. Although well-meaning mental health policies are important, what’s even more important is that they are actually implemented. In the best interests of the South African citizens, it is essential for all stakeholders to minimise confusion and collaborate towards a single goal, so that the people who need help the most are not forgotten.
FEATURED IMAGE: COLLAGE: Nelson Mandela Bridge heading into Johannesburg CBD, an image of a Recovery Unit sign inside Milpark Hospital, and a box or reference documents intended to help SADAG counsellers deal with depressed adolescent callers. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
As South Africa celebrates 30 years of democracy, a new challenge surfaces: younger generations losing touch with their home languages. A mix of personal stories and expert opinions show the profound impact on cultural identity for the people affected.
“Akasazi isiZulu [He doesn’t know isiZulu].” That’s often the first thing people say when they ask why I am so quiet. And although there’s a kernel of truth to that, the shame it brings me is overwhelming.
When I go to family gatherings in Welkom, Free State, I feel disconnected from my family. The house is filled with chatter and joyous laughs as my family members connect with one another in Sesotho, a language I have lost the ability to speak fluently. I find myself as a spectator, sitting back and enjoying the moment, but not being able to connect with them in the language. While I try to brush it off, my heart sinks deep into my stomach as I struggle with shame.
When I visit my family in Durban the shame continues to linger. I sit with my uncles and brothers who are conversing in isiZulu and making jokes, some of which I cannot understand. I keep quiet and try to laugh at everything that they are laughing at, hoping that they will not call me out on it. When I am called out, I simply have no response, as if to say that I cannot explain my inability to speak my home language fluently.
As I now live in Johannesburg, I am tainted with these experiences that have brought shame to me my entire life. I can’t help but wonder how many more people have gone through the same experiences. How many more people have lost touch with their home languages and have had their sense of belonging affected? And, most importantly, how has this affected my understanding of culture and my relationship with it?
Language loss and learning
This disconnection is not a unique experience: many South Africans born after 1994 have lost touch with their mother tongue. The end of apartheid regime in 1994 signaled the beginning of a new South Africa by recognising 11 official languages in what has always been a multilingual country. However, although these diverse languages were recognised, with efforts made to promote their use, many young people have strayed from speaking or understanding their mother tongues, either fluently or at all.
Since 1994 there have been high levels of urbanisation, particularly in the city of Johannesburg – the economic hub of the country, in which English is used as the lingua francain all sectors of the public. This has made English the key to success in this city, translating into economic and family pressures to master the language. Ironically, only 9.2% of households in Gauteng use English as a first language, a vast difference to the 23% that speak isiZulu.
Parents play a significant role in determining which language their child speaks or in which they receive an education. Studies have shown that parents strongly insist on their children learning and receiving education in English because of its economic benefits. Iin some cases, parents go to the extent of speaking English with their children at home so that they can learn the language more efficiently. A preference for English leads many people to neglect their home languages, which has dire implications for one’s sense of self and identity.
Language is more than just a means through which people communicate, but it is also an indicator of one’s culture and “record of ethnicity”. These are the words of Dr Soyiso Khetoa, a social linguist, who is also the head of the African Languages Department at the University of the Witwatersrand. Khetoa explains, “Language influences perception… therefore, it influences our worldview… and how we interact with the world. So, eventually, the language you speak influences the person you become.”
As a person that identifies as Zulu, I find some truth in that statement. Coming from a traditional Zulu family, I have respect and admiration for my language and culture and knowing my roots gives me a source of pride. However, not being able to speak isiZulu fluently has prevented me from learning valuable information from my elders who can speak only isiZulu, or in other cases, prevents me from participating in customs that require me to speak the language. This leaves me feeling somewhat alienated from my culture and who I truly am.
To illustrate this point, I’ll return to a day on which my father and I performed a ritual of burning incense, an act to communicate with our ancestors. We did this shortly after I changed my surname to my dad’s family name a few years ago to reintroduce myself to the ancestors. After my father had sung our praises, he asked me to also share a few words in what was a bittersweet moment. On one hand, I was able to participate in a unique tradition, however, I felt limited as I could not fully say what I needed to say in isiZulu.
Thato Gololo, a 26-year-old student journalist from a Tswana family, has experienced cultural dissonance too. When Gololo was two years old, his family moved to Bedfordview, with a demographic largely comprising white, English-speaking individuals. Before this, as a toddler, Gololo would frequently speak Setswana but, as he interacted with people from his environment, he would later begin to speak only English. His father insisted to the rest of his family that they continue speaking English with Gololo so that he would not be confused. In the process, he lost touch with his home language and, with it, his cultural roots.
“It’s a very clear pathway, when you think about it. I don’t know my home languages, so I don’t put myself in the spaces with very traditional black people that speak [the language],” Gololo says. “Because I don’t put myself in those spaces, I don’t know the practices. So, I don’t know the practices, therefore, I’m disconnected from it.”
However, Gololo is not fully aware of Tswana customs also because of his pastor parents adopting Christianity over traditional Tswana customs, reducing his exposure to the latter. “My mom hates slaughtered meat, for example. If she’s at an event she will refuse to let you slaughter an animal,” he says. “Because of that I didn’t eat slaughtered meat for a while, because two people I really trust are my parents. If my parents did the thing, I did the thing. If my parents don’t do the thing, I don’t do the thing.”
Gololo has had to learn along the way about his culture, whereas his family already knew and stayed true to their customs. “When my brother got married, he did all of the very cultural things. He didn’t go on one knee to propose, he did the Tswana thing of ‘Hey, I’m going to send a letter to your household being “this is my intention”.’ My family seems to be aware, but personally I’m not.”
Ultimately, Gololo’s reduced exposure to the culture also affected his ability to speak the language. “Because I didn’t get immersed into the culture, because I didn’t speak the language, it’s a direct correlation. I don’t know this stuff. I feel very disconnected,” he says.
English and cultural shift
A common thread among young people who don’t know their mother tongue is a strong preference for English. The language was originally foreign in South Africa, being introduced by the British settlers who resided in the Cape Colony in the 1790s. It eventually became recognised as an official language in 1910 and it has evolved from being a language of liberation during the apartheid struggle to being the lingua franca that connects every community within South Africa.
A generational shift has also occurred as younger generations are not as inclined to using their home languages as a tool, unlike previous generations. Historically, indigenous languages were always prioritised to pass down knowledge and information to each generation. In addition, indigenous languages are seen as keys to understanding the essence of each culture. However, more scholars and students do not see the benefits of studying further in their indigenous languages.
Bela Bill and education
The issue of language in education has always been contentious in South Africa. This dates to the 1976 Soweto protests, when students protested the government’s decision to make Afrikaans a compulsory medium of instruction in black schools through the Afrikaans Medium Decree of 1974. The post-apartheid era has seen progressive changes in the use of language in education: the 1996 Constitution and the Language in Education Policy state that every learner has the basic right of education in any of their home languages. Although that may be the case on paper, many black learners have had to attend public schools in which English and Afrikaans are still mediums of instruction.
The introduction of the Basic Education Law Amendment (Bela) Bill could help to make a significant difference. The Bela Bill, signed into law in September 2024, is a modification of the 1996 Schools Act,which granted the school governing bodies the authority to decide a school’s language policy. The Bela Bill’s language policy states that schools are allowed to choose and enable their own languages of instruction, but that the department of education has the final word.
The bill has faced strong opposition, particularly from the Democratic Alliance (DA) party and the Afrikaans community, who believe that the bill poses a threat to the right to education in one’s mother tongue. The Pan South African Language Board, an establishment that focuses on creating conditions that develop the use of the official languages, commends the Bela Bill, viewing it as a “progressive step towards promoting the equitable use of all official languages and elevating the status of previously marginalised languages”.
Khetoa sees the bill’s positive potential. He says it “seeks to promote or redress linguistic inequalities in the country, in that now it would give formerly marginalised languages an opportunity to be advanced to a certain level where students or learners will be able to take up education in their language”.
The Bela Bill is an opportunity to give more learners a chance to connect with their cultural roots as they are given the opportunity to learn in their native languages.
Infographic: Siyanda Mthethwa/Canva.
Staying connected to home languages
“Monareng, Letsoalo la mmatau, tebele la mahasoa, legadima la manyokenyokela go phala le banna go phema. Kgomo motho, mmamafase fofale manonng, Mapokgole tebele.”
These are the clan names that Freddy Letsoalo and his family are greeted with as a sign of honour and respect. “In most cases it is during traditional events, most recently in June during the return of young men from initiation school. Our folk greet each other with each other’s clan names to honour the ancestors who we believe live in us,” Letsoalo says.
Letsoalo is a fourth-year theatre and performance student at the University of the Witwatersrand who grew up in Tzaneen, Limpopo. He grew up speaking Sepedi and Xitsonga and has managed to maintain fluency in his home languages, even using them to write stories and plays.
Letsoalo values the importance that language has for tradition, saying that it’s an important way to learn more about your culture. “For me, personally, it’s from communicating with elders to learn and connect with the culture. Mind you, the mother tongue is in most cases the only language the elders speak, so it is the only medium to connect or learn about the culture. Lesoalo explains the part of his culture he can remain connected to the most through language. “[It is] the ancestral ceremonies where we pay homage to and thanksgiving to our ancestors through what is known as ‘Go Phasa/Ku phahla’. In this process we call the ancestors and the language used in this ritual is the mother tongue. Knowing the language gives a sense of belonging in the practice and I get to participate in the process.”
The future
The future for language and culture in South Africa is not bleak. Although there are numerous young people who can’t speak their mother tongue, there are still millions of young people who take pride in their languages and their culture, particularly in the arts and culture sector. The Bela Bill is a step in the right direction to help to ensure that more young people are able to receive education in their mother tongues.
Although the language issue has embarrassed me personally, I strive to use the pain as motivation. I am now motivated to learn more about my language and culture so I can help to ensure the preservation of my overall culture. A story that once caused me immense shame now empowers me to lead as an example and prove that I can eventually overcome this obstacle as I strive for a better future.
FEATURED IMAGE: An individual struggling to read a book in his home language, IsiZulu. Photo: Siyanda Mthethwa.
Three decades of democracy have not alleviated the struggles of South Africa’s townships – the majority of them remain as dormitories of cheap labor.
How would you describe the significance of 30 years under democratic governance in South Africa? “Honestly, I think the situation just got worse than before,” says Daphne Malakwane, an elderly resident from a township south of Johannesburg.
Thirty years have passed since the end of apartheid and the meaning of democracy varies greatly across most South African townships. The legacies of the apartheid regime still perpetuate economic inequalities, evident in how spatial planning manifests in the majority of townships in Johannesburg.
The effects of apartheid segregation mean many people live far away from the greater economic hubs and township residents face hefty transport costs to access essential services like proper healthcare, quality education and employment opportunities. To access services, residents must spend money on transport to access affluent places in the cities and suburbs.
Increased numbers of unemployed youth in the township have resulted in a wave of drug addicts who have reverted to crime. Linganiso Sibabalwe, an Orange Farm resident, highlights how unsafe his neighborhood has become over the years. “Community members have learned to take matters into [their] own hands as far as the law is concerned: they no longer rely on the South African Police Services,” he says.
The birth of Johannesburg
The City of Johannesburg became the economic hub of South Africa long before the advent of apartheid. The discovery of gold in 1886 led to a gold rush that significantly affected the evolution of the city and surrounding regions, culminating in it becoming the dominant economic force in the country.
Johannesburg attracted a diverse population, drawn by the promise of wealth and economic opportunities, who shared common goals and coexisted harmoniously. However, the materialisation of apartheid in 1948 resulted in the enactment of oppressive and harsh policies mandating racial segregation and unequal laws that restricted where black, Indian and Coloured people were allowed to live and work.
Black people specifically were forcibly removed and relocated to areas known as Bantustans, which were exemplified by grim living conditions, insufficient infrastructure, and restricted access to essential services.
“The government had a name for the Bantustans back then: they used to label them as ‘labour reservoirs’. We were kept right next to the cities and mines so that we could wake up very early and go to work for the white man,” says Godfrey Baloyi, a long-time resident of Orange Farm.
International pressure and global condemnation resulted in economic sanctions and cultural boycotts against South Africa. Coupled with the internal resistance of freedom fighters, this led the government to eventually stop the unchecked brutality.
Apartheid’s racial segregation enforced rigid systems that institutionalised inequality, particularly in black communities. People living in Bantustans had restricted access to quality education, economic opportunities and quality healthcare.
With the introduction of democracy in 1994, the government aimed to restore the dignity of its people by expropriating farmland on the outskirts of the cities and converting it to township development. One of the earliest policies to promote this was the Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP) which was tasked with rolling out low-cost housing in townships.
This entrenched socioeconomic exclusion of the poorest South Africans, confining them to the fringes of the greater city. According to Neil Klung, a senior lecturer at the University of the Witwatersrand’s School of Architecture and Planning, the government’s plan was focused on the development of houses instead of the development of integrated settlements. The unintended consequence was the reinforcement of apartheid spatial-planning patterns, which have manifested today in townships such as Orange Farm. The latter is a township based in a semi-rural, underdeveloped area, located about 40km south of Johannesburg.
One of Orange Farm’s more income-generating streets, everything from transport to tomatoes is on sale. Photo: Salim Nkosi
Migration to Orange Farm
Orange Farm, which was established in 1989 by the former Transvaal Provincial Administration (TPA), grew to a population of more than 70 000 people by 1991. At this time the TPA, in an attempt to edge closer to black urbanisation had begun building low-cost brick houses that were offered for sale to the community. The TPA encountered significant challenges with this programme: key issues that surfaced included severe levels of poverty and unemployment, which meant buying these stands was out of reach for people migrating to Orange Farm.
Khosi Mnareng (65) a long-time Orange Farm resident, said that he lived in Pimville before he moved to his current location. Soweto was overpopulated and Mnareng felt compelled to move elsewhere if he were to provide for his family. He says: “We all came here for better economic opportunities and stable housing. Many of us got weary of being consistently displaced and relocated by the apartheid government – Orange Farm offered a sense of permanence during those times”.
But this is not the case for people who reside in Orange Farm today. When Mnareng first moved to Orange Farm, he worked on a farm to provide for his family. His wife Mary, who together with her husband, was standing in a lengthy queue waiting for their monthly pensioner’s grant, added that she came to Orange Farm because she had found a job as a domestic worker in white people’s farmhouses. She says, “At least we could resort to that as an option back then. Now that white flight has occurred, this place offers nothing in terms of economic prospects.”
Mnareng adds that the issues began when the RDP housing rolled out, which he alleges encouraged undocumented foreign nations to migrate to Orange Farm. Land designated for residential and subsidised housing projects was frequently occupied and informal settlements were constantly expanding. Mnareng alleges that the people responsible for rolling out the RDP houses were corrupt.
The current conditions of some RDP houses in Orange Farm. Photo: Salim Nkosi
Inadequate infrastructure and municipal neglect
In 2018, residents of Orange Farm complained to Parliament that undocumented foreign nationals were paying R6,000 bribes to government officials to secure their own RDP houses. As yet, these complaints have not been addressed by the government. Delays in housing allocations have led to squatter camps sprouting around the township, such as in extension 10, where residents live in makeshift shacks and draw their power directly from the nearby railway system.
Malakwane (64) from extension 3 in Orange Farm tells me that the municipality has cut off her water supply and she has not had electricity for the past five years. She cannot pay her water bills due to unemployment and a lack of financial support; she has not worked for the past 17 years. “We were told by the municipality that each household must pay a fee of R500 to resolve these issues, but to date nothing has changed,” she says. “As old as I am, I must make means of survival.”
Some residents in extension 3 have not had any electricity since covid-19. Due to extreme pressures exerted on transformers through drawing electricity illegally from the power grid, several of them blew up and residents were required by the municipality to pay a penalty per household. Community members resisted, raising concerns about being required to pay a penalty although most households do not have breadwinners.
Orange Farm has not managed to transform itself into its own economic base, largely because of housing issues and a lack of social capital. Sello Modise, a political activist, says that the issue of mass black urbanisation cannot be fully dealt with if residents of Orange Farm are still living in squatter camps.
According to a brief by Parliament’s research unit, Orange Farm is a dormitory town with inadequate fundamental services and impoverished road infrastructure, which hinders efficient basic services, such as public transport and healthcare.
The municipality has not created employment opportunities for its people. The shops in the Eyethu Orange Farm Mall employ local residents, but the number of jobs available has little effect in addressing the youth unemployment in the township.
Economic and employment challenges
The nearest clusters for commerce and economic opportunities are in Lenasia and Ennerdale. Linganiso Sibabalwe, a recent graduate from North-West University, shared his insights on how it has become all but impossible to job hunt while living in Orange Farm. “Even if you make it to the interview stages, it is most likely that you will get there very late because of the distance or issues with public transport,” he says.
Sibusiso Mema has been working at Africa Loans, a financial service provider in Eyethu Mall, for almost a year now. He says it has been convenient to work near his place of residence, since he can pay R12 to take a taxi to get to work, and emphasises that some of his peers are required to travel to Johannesburg each day. According to demographic statistics on Wikipedia, 85% of people who live in Orange Farm work in Johannesburg. They all travel by minibus taxis and buses, since trains ceased operation during covid-19 due to cable theft.
Research by former journalist and anti-apartheid activist Dr Thami Mazwai found that township commuters spend 90% of their salary in the greater city, which means that there is little money circulating in the townships themselves.
One of the crumbling businesses in extension three of Orange Farm, a hair salon owned by a resident. Photo: Salim Nkosi
Matshidiso Selepe currently works in the city of Johannesburg. She tells me she spends R84 each day to travel to and from work. She earns R6,500 a month and commutes to the city six days a week. She says, “I spend R1,680 monthly on transport alone. It is as if I am working for a taxi fare because I do not have enough money left for myself and my family. But somehow it is better than sitting at home without employment, especially here in Orange Farm where there are zero hopes of employment.”
The effects of marginalisation
The isolation and marginalisation of townships have led to higher levels of crime, unemployment, drug abuse, and illiteracy, and hinders social mobility, particularly among the youth. Crime levels have surged dramatically in Orange Farm. France Matshinye, a University of the Witwatersrand LLB student from Orange Farm commutes to Johannesburg. He says he avoids travelling very late at night in his neighborhood because of the potential violence.
The scarcity of recreational activities and deficient education systems are evident throughout the township. Themba Khumalo has lived at extension 3 of Orange Farm his whole life. He recently completed his matric and he is currently unemployed. Khumalo says the shortage of schooling facilities and unavailability of economic prospects in his area is a contributing factor to the youth idling in the streets. The idea of being landlocked in one area has created a space in which the aspirations of the young people are limited to what is within their reach. “They tend to look up to the gang members as aspirations because it is who they are exposed to daily,” Matshinye says.
Young unemployed street sweepers make an income from the people who drive on the road daily. Photo: Salim Nkosi
Local solutions for local problems
Despite the challenges faced by Orange Farm and its residents, the township’s population is mushrooming. Action needs to be taken to address the inequalities that exist in this community. Mr. Modise is in his early 40s and has recently enrolled for a politics degree at Unisa. He believes there is hope for Orange Farm and that the only people who can solve its problems are those who live there.
The local municipality says it is aware of the issues in Orange Farm, and has put initiatives in place to combat them.
When I ask Bongani Ndlovu, a community leader in Orange Farm, about such initiatives made to upscale the community’s economy, he mentions the concept of social capital and developing value chains, neither of which have been championed so far. According to Ndlovu, these two concepts have been a big challenge, particularly in a township as culturally divided as Orange Farm. He adds, “The initiatives have only been executed better in taverns, basically places which add no value to the youth.”
Despite being neglected by the municipality, many young people have taken matters into their own hands and informal businesses are sprouting up around Orange Farm. Ndlovu is running an initiative that seeks to strengthen existing businesses in his neighbourhood by hosting social markets where small businesses showcase their products to the community. “I believe that this is one of the ways local residents can create their own economy in Orange Farm,” he says.
A sprouted squatter camp in a township of Orange Farm – Local businesses here tend to crumble because of the lack of monetary circulation in the township. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
A mother and her young daughter walking to their container home in extension three of Orange Farm – Some of these people have not had electricity, proper sanitation, and running water ever since they moved here. Photo: Salim Nkosi
Improper housing infrastructure – Backrooms have overpopulated Orange Farm and to the residents, they serve as means of monthly income. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
An example of a transportation business – Like in the villages, most neighborhoods in Orange Farm still use horse carts as means of transportation, this is also rooted from the cultural presents of the Sotho people. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
One of households which draws electricity directly from the power grid – Shacks built next to railways have connected to the powerlines illegally, with electrical cables cut loosely, this signals danger to the young children. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
A sprouted shack without basic services such as water and electricity – These type of informal housing are circulated throughout the townships sub-locations. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
An example of Orange Farm’s income generating street – Local residents tend to leave their homes and open stalls next to the busiest roads of the townships to target people commuting daily. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
Pap and cow head fast-food business in extension three – Due to the unavailability of working and job opportunities, some people have been highly relying on their own businesses for quite sometime. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
A form of street vending vegetable stall in extension three – These kind of stalls provide basic like cooking supplies to the local residents since shopping centers are located too far from their neighborhoods. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
Conditions of the RDP houses in the township – Since construction in the 1990s, RDP houses are now breaking down, this is also due to lack of resources and the cheap material used during construction at that time. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
A Christian church which is continuously in operation every Sunday. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
Livestock grazed directly from neighborhood trees. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
Livestock feeding amongst many of present dumping sites. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
Young boys playing on top of high stones – The lack of infrastructure deprives the youth of access to parks and other recreational facilities, which ultimately leads to unpleasant dangerous situations. Photo: Salim Nkosi.
A homeless Orange Far resident picking up recyclable material to make ends meet – This is very common since there are countless illegal dumping sites in the township. Photo Salim Nkosi.
FEATURED IMAGE: A common informal business in Orange Farm townships. Photo: Salim Nkosi
The face of tourism has undergone a makeover since the dawn of democracy some 30 years ago, but whether it is a big enough change remains to be seen.
Stepping off a monstrously sized and noisy aeroplane at Johannesburg’s OR Tambo International Airport, warm air blows into your face. Your eyes squint while trying to adjust to the blinding sunlight. There is an immediate atmosphere of hustle and bustle, and you can hear several different languages being spoken around you.
Touring the city, you make your first stop at the Johannesburg Zoo for a glimpse of the Big Five up close and personal. A stroll around the Botanical Gardens leaves you parched, so you find yourself on Vilakazi Street for some authentic South African food and beverages. Feeling adventurous, you abseil down the Soweto Towers and ride a bicycle through the Johannesburg central business district and its arty Maboneng Precinct.
You have an early flight out tomorrow morning, but there is still so much left to uncover; so much more still to experience.
However, looking down at the skyscrapers from your tiny aeroplane window, you realise something: if you had visited Johannesburg 30 years ago, the city would still be bustling with tourism, but you would view all the attractions through the eyes of a fractured society.
The Soweto Towers are the peak of adventure tourism in Johannesburg, with the tiny bridge offering a unique bungee jumping experience to locals or internationals. Photo: Victoria Hill
Contextualising tourism: More than 30 years in the making
Tourism has existed for centuries, even if it constantly redefines itself. Tourism did not become a concept only when trains, boats, cars or aeroplanes were invented. People have been moving from one place to another for different reasons for as long as mankind has inhabited the Earth, which is one early definition of tourism.
Tourism is different from expeditionism in the sense that tourists follow set paths or visit already discovered areas. Tourism can thus be for business, sports, medical, leisure, cultural or religious purposes.
Geoffrey Wall and John Towner say the history of tourism encompasses three themes: tourism in the ancient and medieval worlds, the Grand Tour era of the 17th and 18th centuries, and the growth of spas and seaside resorts.
These themes have some factors in common, mainly that individuals who participated in these kinds of tourism were powerful and wealthy.
Until 1994, tourism in South Africa had these two commonalities as well. Only people of an upper-class, white status could indulge in movement from one place to another. Black individuals were issued with a dompas: an internal passport that restricted their movement on foot. Thus, they could not indulge in free travel around a city like Johannesburg, never mind for leisure to a seaside resort.
This is what led to the White Paper of 1996, which described “diversity [as] where the country’s tourism attraction lies” and stated that the end of apartheid “opened the country’s tourism potential to the rest of the world and, indeed, to the previously neglected groups in society”.
Yet, tourism only really redefined itself in later years. Black people were now granted human rights, but they could not exercise in these rights until they were given a platform to practise them.
Itumeleng Rabotapi, director of strategic management, monitoring and evaluation at the department of tourism, says: “The above advantages notwithstanding, South Africa has not been able to realise its full potential in tourism. As such, the contribution of tourism to employment, small business development, income and foreign-exchange earnings has been limited.”
The White Paper says: “Had its history been different, South Africa would probably have been one of the most-visited places in the world.”
Johannesburg is seen as a microcosm of South Africa in this report, which investigates whether touring the city has changed since democratisation or if it will take 30 more years to master.
State of tourism pre-1994
If you went back in time to revisit apartheid South Africa, you would find a vastly different City of Johannesburg than the one to which you are accustomed.
A tourist in South Africa was typically a white, wealthy, powerful individual or family. To take part in tourism activities pre-1994, academic IB Mkhize explains that a person needed to have disposable income, leisure time, means of transport, freedom of movement, access to facilities and destinations to visit. The apartheid regime deprived all South Africans, except white people, of these things.
Jane Skipsey, a former hotel general manager and guesthouse owner, says: “The hotel industry was very glamorous in the 1980s, with lots of glitz. The five-star Carlton Hotel [now closed] in downtown Johannesburg was buzzing with international guests.”
The abandoned Carlton Hotel stands tall as a landmark of Johannesburg’s skyline despite no longer having glitz and glamour as in pre-1994. Photo: Victoria HillIn comparison to the internationally renowned Carlton Hotel, a small guesthouse in Yeoville offers rooms starting from R70 for one hour. Photo: Victoria Hill
Academic Christian Rogerson says the crisis tourism experienced until 2010 has roots in the policies of apartheid. He places emphasis on the Soweto Uprising of 1976 and the declaration of a state of emergency in the 1980s, which led to South Africa being politically isolated from the rest of the world.
However, despite this, Skipsey says, “Business still had to be conducted and holidays were still taken. There were not that many prominent hotel groups at the time and Southern Sun dominated the market, with business and leisure hotels aplenty.”
Justyn Spinner, managing director of Hello Lifestyle Magazine (formerly Hello Joburg, Hello Cape Town, Hello Durban and Hello Pretoria), says that in the 1980s, when his father pioneered the company, “There were no reliable sources of lifestyle and entertainment content.”
This is what inspired Spinner senior to create a guidebook-style publication featuring lifestyle and attraction spots in Johannesburg. It was targeted at people who had the freedom of movement and choice to partake in leisure activities.
Christo Nicolopoulos, a restaurateur in Johannesburg, says that pre-1994, “The process of opening a restaurant was less bureaucratic.” Nicolopoulos opened many high-end restaurants and he was also involved in “black eating houses… and opened the first eating house with proper plates and knives and forks in Kempton Park”.
“Black eating houses”, or restaurants for black people, show the depth of apartheid segregation in the tourism sector. Black people were not granted access to mainstream tourism activities and were often left undignified and underprivileged in what they could pursue for leisure.
Although Johannesburg was a world-class city with beautiful hotels and restaurants that international businesspeople or tourists would travel to see, its status was maintained on the foundation of apartheid.
State of tourism post-1994
The numbers say South Africa’s tourism sector has been on the mend since 1994. With international sanctions lifted, and the eyes of the world on South Africa’s new democratic state, tourism experienced a boom.
The inception of South African Tourism also helped to rebrand the country and manage its reputation. The body was instituted with the hope of allowing historically disadvantaged South Africans to benefit from the sector.
Rogerson says, “Domestic rather than international tourism is the backbone of the South African tourism economy. While the major component is accounted for by white South Africans, steady growth is occurring in the black tourism sector.”
The tourism industry is more diverse now in terms of ownership and clientele. The introduction of small to medium-sized enterprises and the department of tourism’s enterprise development and transformation programme allowed locally made products and services to enter the tourism market.
One example is the Yeoville Dinner Club, pioneered by Sanza Sandile. For Sandile, who grew up in apartheid Soweto, this dinner club “has become a vision and a direction of [his] childhood dream”. After moving to Yeoville at the dawn of democracy, he wanted to redefine what was once called “a derogatory shebeen in [his] grandmother’s day”.
Sandile’s dinner club “is about celebrating this piece of history through food socials”. The dinner club has “enjoyed a whole mix of international guests and real local foodies from a slightly higher LSM [Living Standards Measure]”.
Locals often describe Yeoville – and Hillbrow – as the geographical centres of deterioration and crime. However, Sandile says his patrons view the now “accidental pan-African suburb” as “one of the most popular cultural and topical spaces in Johannesburg”.
Despite being described as the cultural heartbeat of Johannesburg, Rocky Street in Yeoville also represents the decay of infrastructure in the tourism sector post-1994. Photo: Victoria Hill
Nicolopoulos says black economic empowerment policies created a group of black diners, colloquially known as “Black Diamonds”, who enjoy splurging on champagne and cognac on occasion.
A tourist of colour who often frequents the streets of Johannesburg is 21-year-old Uyanda Tyusha. After growing up in Johannesburg, Tyusha moved to Stellenbosch to finish his tertiary education.
He says: “Having previously lived in Johannesburg, I often travel back to visit friends and family… I mostly find myself going out for something to eat, either lunch or dinner… I also go to attend musical festivals or concerts… I am interested in.”
As a student on a tight budget, Tyusha dreams of “visiting the lesser-travelled areas in the country and discover[ing] more” in years to come.
Being a Born Free, Tyusha “can’t image having restrictions on the sort of travelling that [he] does”. He says if had been born during apartheid he “would most likely be restricted to movement within [or] between the townships”. There would be no chance of him visiting an establishment like the Yeoville Dinner Club.
At the National Job Summit in 1998, tourism was recognised as “the sector which had the greatest potential for reducing unemployment in the country”, Rogerson says. This potential was envisaged as manifesting through community-based initiatives and township, rural and cultural tourism.
Tourism in Johannesburg now has an economic, social, political, cultural and educational value. In 2024, the city has endless tourist attractions, most either born from apartheid, in remembrance of apartheid and the people who lived under it, or an attempt to advantage previously disadvantaged people.
Tourism as a a socioeconomic sector
According to the 1996 White Paper, South Africa relies on tourism to increase the rate of employment, promote equality in all aspects of society, and contribute to the overall gross domestic product (GDP) and investment in the country’s economy.
South African Tourism, the marketing arm of the department of tourism, says tourism promotes “the sustainable economic and social empowerment of all South Africans”. Tourism is a multi-sectoral industry, which means its growth allows multiple sectors to grow too and for more jobs to be created.
The White Paper found that tourism contributed 2% to the GDP in 1994, which increased to 4% in 1995. In 2024, Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) says tourism contributes an estimated 8.8% to the GDP. In 30 years, tourism has more than doubled its contribution to the economy.
Spinner says “we should see the tourism industry as a major contributor to our GDP”, due to its diverse offerings and the welcoming culture of our country to international visitors.
There were an estimated 70,000 working in the sector in 1994 and 1.7 million in 2024. Globally, one in every nine jobs is in the tourism sector, which is about 10.7% of the global workforce.
Skipsey says there is still a massive educational divide that limits equality in the tourism sector’s workforce. The majority of management positions were previously held by white people and unskilled positions were given to people of colour.
“This started to change with employment equity, brought about by the new government post-1994,” Skipsey says. “There are still hurdles. Some black South Africans are assigned jobs for which they are not qualified and this can end up messy.”
Rogerson estimates that 50,000 international tourists visited South Africa in 1986. When 1994 rolled around, the White Paper estimates South Africa welcomed 4.48 million international tourists. Stats SA estimates this number to be 10.7 million in 2024.
Stats SA says tourism is set to grow 7.6% annually over the next decade. This is above the overall economic growth rate of 1.8%.
To residents of Johannesburg, this might come as a shock. The city is not seen as glamorous by its inhabitants, but rather as deteriorating by the second.
Restaurateur Nicolopoulos says, “our economic hub, Johannesburg, is avoided by tourists”, due to the “lack of law and order, corruption and high levels of crime”. The city has simply become “a transit port of entry for Cape Town and the Kruger National Park”.
Overall, the department of tourism’s Rabotapi says tourism is “well-positioned to link under-developed regions with the developed ones as it transcends spatial and geographic boundaries”.
Tourism has a unique ability to promote and maintain harmony on the premise of a shared love for one’s country.
A peek into the next 30 years
Although tourism is classed as a leading socioeconomic sector in today’s South Africa, it still has unlocked potential.
Rabotapi says: “Growth of tourism to and within South Africa requires the portfolio to provide an enabling environment.”
This includes improving tourism assets and infrastructure, ensuring tourism safety and access to basic services, and developing a culture of travel among South Africans so the sector is supported domestically.
Throughout South Africa’s 1.27 million square kilometres, Johannesburg’s province of Gauteng takes up a mere 18,000. Yet, it has made significant strides in transforming the tourism sector during the 30 years of democracy.
Touring the city was once a privilege; now, doing so is a reminder of what humanity went through to be alive today.
International tourists are entranced by a tour guide at Constitution Hill, where they soak up the suffering of wrongfully incarcerated individuals in the apartheid era. Photo: Victoria Hill
Just metres away stands a school tour at Constitution Hill, creating a stark contrast between the domestic and international groups. These local visitors are here for an educational purpose that provides insight into their city’s history. Photo: Victoria Hill
A group of Zulu dancers entertain the international tourists on Vilakazi Street with a cultural display of song and dance whilst cameras were at the ready.
On a pavement in Vilakazi Street, local artists sell their crafts to all visitors. South Africa needs more of this domestic tourism where talent becomes a livelihood. Photo: Victoria Hill
International tourists poured onto the Soweto Hop On & Hop Off bus after visiting Mandela’s House, and were easy to spot in their red contraption. Photo: Victoria Hill
Locals commemorate those who died for their country by visiting the South African National Museum of Military History, and marvel at what it would have been like back in the day. Photo: Victoria Hill
International tourists photographing the infamous Hector Pieterson Memorial in Orlando West had cameras swinging from their necks in their classic dress of shorts and t-shirts. Photo: Victoria Hill
Where international tourists would visit the Kruger National Park, locals in Johannesburg simply visit the metropolitan zoo to spend a day in the sun with roaring lions and grazing rhinos. Photo: Victoria Hill
The infamous open-top City Sightseeing Bus is visible most days in Johannesburg. When locals are hard at work, internationals sit atop the red double-decker and view the city in its holistic form. Photo: Victoria Hill
Residents of Johannesburg call the Maboneng Precinct their artistic playground with its vibrant stores, boutique cafes, and entertainment centres that provides locals with opportunities to relax after work or over the weekends. Photo: Victoria Hill
FEATURED IMAGE: Johannesburg is known for the spotting of Jacaranda trees all about its suburbs, and they have become a tourist attraction in Spring time. Photo: Victoria Hill
Nearly 30 years into democracy, the city of gold’s residents face the harsh reality of a broken service delivery system.
Imagine living in a city that was once hailed as the economic titan of Africa but is now subject to the daily indignity of deteriorating infrastructure. Even after 30 years of democratic governance, persistent power cuts, erratic water supplies, roads riddled with potholes, and uncollected garbage have become unfortunate realities for many Johannesburg residents. The aspirational goals of equality, liberty and socioeconomic progress appear increasingly unattainable to some people.
For individuals like Maureen Ncube, this is the hard truth. “We are struggling, we do not have electricity,” Ncube says. “We are stranded in the informal settlements.” In Kanana Extension Four – an informal settlement located northeast of central Johannesburg in Rabie Ridge – Ncube, a mother of eight, lives in a humble home where poor service delivery makes it challenging for her to manage her daily tasks. Her home – built from discarded materials and sheets of corrugated iron – sits just a few feet away from a stream of sewage.
It’s a typical Saturday morning in the settlement, alive with the sounds and colours of township life. The scene is both vibrant and unsettling. Outside Ncube’s home, the stench of sewage is overpowering: a mix of decaying waste, stagnant water and rotting refuse, with dead rats occasionally floating by. The communal tap stands right next to the sewage, forcing residents to fetch water while the smell lingers heavily in the air. Children run around barefoot, oblivious to the health risks that lie in the murky water they splash through.
Residents are left in the dark on certain days when the electricity is totally cut off. In addition, they must frequently go without water on days when the supply runs out due to leaking communal taps. Like millions of other Jo’burg residents, Ncube and her children rely on these basic services to survive. With every dry tap, power outage and pile of uncollected garbage, she is reminded of just how much Johannesburg’s service delivery has failed its people.
Numerous locals such as Ncube face a daily dilemma: either deal with water scarcity or spend money on expensive private water supplies. Their physical health is negatively affected by the unreliability of critical services, and their everyday lives are overshadowed by the emotional toll of living in uncertainty. As they negotiate a system that has repeatedly let them down, families are left anxious by the constant fear of upcoming power outages or water problems.
The establishment of municipal state-owned entities
The Municipal Systems Act gave rise to organisations like City Power and Johannesburg Water in the early 2000s. Section 73(1)(c) of the Act emphasises that municipalities must ensure “universal access to essential services that are affordable to all” and move progressively toward “the provision of basic services to all our people, specifically the poor and disadvantaged”. The Act saw Johannesburg Water and City Power as essential providers of reliable and reasonably priced services that supported the constitutional goal of fostering equitable development.
City Power and Johannesburg Water were expected to adhere to the Act’s mandates for financial sustainability and community engagement. Section 73(2)(b) requires that municipalities provide services “in a financially and environmentally sustainable manner”. Despite their mandates to offer affordable services, City Power and Johannesburg Water have encountered both financial and operational challenges. Mismanagement and rising expenses have made it more difficult for these organisations to achieve their initial objectives.
A Kanana resident tries to navigate through the uncollected waste. Picture: Rivaldo Jantjies.
What went wrong?
City Power and Johannesburg Water were established to improve service delivery in Johannesburg; however, they have not met their objectives. The Municipal Systems Act, section 95(c), mandates municipalities to maintain sound financial management to ensure sustainable services. However, these state-owned entities have been embroiled in corruption and mismanagement.
An August City Press article reported that auditor-general Tsakani Maluleke’s 2022-23 report raised significant concerns about financial mismanagement in the City of Johannesburg. The City retained its previous year’s unqualified audit opinion with findings, yet issues of poor financial management persisted, according to City Press. In addition, a July Mail & Guardian report highlighted allegations that City Power and Pikitup have been heavily tainted by corruption and political interference. Prominent ANC leaders are accused of compromising public services by capturing the city-owned companies for their own benefit. Investigations into the entities are under way for anomalies in tenders that led to poor service delivery. Patronage networks have allegedly been strengthened by these actions, which are believed to have enriched certain politicians at the expense of taxpayers and the construction of vital infrastructure.
Section 73(2)(c) of the Municipal Systems Act requires services to be financially and environmentally sustainable, but the deteriorating infrastructure suggests otherwise. For instance, Coronationville has faced weeks without water, leading to protests as frustrated residents demand their basic rights. A recent Daily Maverick report found that Coronationville depends on the Hursthill 1 Reservoir, which is facing severe operational challenges and structural decay, resulting in major water losses. Similar issues plague Kanana, where residents endure recurring blackouts and broken water-supply systems, despite the initial goal outlined by these state-owned entities to provide equitable service delivery. The common thread for these failures is a lack of transparency and accountability.
Political analyst Ebrahim Harvey argues that service-delivery issues in Johannesburg stem from external pressures placed on local leadership. According to Harvey, the World Bank played a role in pushing ANC councillors and officials toward restructuring municipal services in the early ’90s. He adds, “The World Bank is the place that put pressure on the ANC councilors and leadership to go the route to collapse all the services in the municipalities.” The foundation for future initiatives and economic changes in South Africa was established by the World Bank as early as the 1990s. To prepare South African officials for the Bank’s possible participation in local projects, should an interim government request this, the Bank held policy seminars and capacity-building workshops, as well as conducting informal economic research.
The consequences for Johannesburg residents
Two Kanana residents, Moitheri Tau and Tembi Elizabeth Mokwele, publicly voice their dissatisfaction and disenchantment with the city’s inadequate services.
Tau, who has lived in the area since 1993, describes a daily struggle for electricity and safety. She explains that residents connect power cables to a nearby transformer. “We don’t have electricity and the service delivery is poor. We connected ourselves illegally after City Power disconnected us,” she admits, pointing out the dangers of living without basic services. “Our children use candlelight to study, but when they fall asleep, the candles set the shacks on fire. One burning shack can cause 14 more to catch fire,” she says.
Mokwele emphasises the unsanitary conditions in which they live. “There’s dirty water everywhere and it makes our children sick,” she says, sitting outside her home. She is enjoying a lively conversation with her neighbors, laughing and cracking jokes, despite the dire situation. Mokwele speaks of her frustration with the government’s repeated promises during election cycles, only for these promises to be forgotten afterwards. “We vote and every time they promise us better living conditions, but nothing happens,” she says.
Both Tau and Mokwele, like many other residents, are desperate for change, pleading for electricity, RDP housing and basic services to ensure their safety and dignity.
The frustration with Johannesburg Water and City Power is not limited to informal settlements, but extends across the city. On Johannesburg Water’s X page, complaints are rampant. One resident expressed outrage after being left without water for days, saying, “We have no water for two days! You just shut off the water without any plan. It’s ridiculous and unacceptable.” Another user echoed this sentiment, frustrated by the repeated failures: “You clearly don’t serve Jo’burg… Why is it taking so long? Why can you never get it fixed correctly the first time?”
The alarming decay of Johannesburg’s water infrastructure is driving the city toward a potential ‘Day Zero’. This raises serious concerns about management and upkeep. In June News24 reported that Rand Water’s maintenance problems make it difficult for Johannesburg Water to satisfy demand, which leads to frequent supply interruptions. The prolonged timescale for these upgrades raises concerns, even while efforts are being made to enhance and modernise water infrastructure to mitigate these problems. Why has it taken so long to fix and improve vital water infrastructure that millions of people depend on every day after more than 30 years of democracy?
Similarly, the City Power X page is filled with complaints from residents affected by constant power outages. One exasperated user shared their frustration, saying, “Every week it’s the same story… whenever Kanana has no power, we are also affected – this is ridiculous! Matriculants are writing exams, how are they supposed to study?” Another commenter highlighted the effect on their livelihood: “Getting fired for always making the same electricity excuse. Working from home is a nightmare.” These posts reflect the widespread discontent across Johannesburg, as both water and electricity services fail to meet residents’ most basic needs.
Kanana household’s illegal electricity connections hang over an informal pathway. Picture: Rivaldo Jantjies
Rising frustration and economic effects
In vulnerable communities like Kanana, the breakdown of service delivery in Johannesburg has aggravated socioeconomic disparities. Dr Morné Oosthuizen, chief research officer at the Development Policy Research Unit of the University of Cape Town, explains that whereas wealthier households can adapt by installing solar panels or purchasing bottled water, poorer households are left with no such alternatives. “Poor households are much more constrained than better-off households in their ability to insulate themselves from poor service delivery,” Oosthuizen notes. This inability to access basic services not only deepens inequality, but also compromises efforts to reduce multidimensional poverty. As Oosthuizen puts it: “Basic services typically serve to reduce inequalities – if you look at multidimensional poverty [and] inequality measures, which include these kinds of services, you will see relatively low rates of multidimensional poverty and lower inequality levels.”
The collapse of infrastructure also raises operating costs for businesses. Oosthuizen says, “There is real potential for this phenomenon to raise costs for employers – for example, they need to install solar panels, or they need to repair vehicles more frequently because of higher wear and tear – putting pressure on their ability to remain competitive.” This added burden weakens local economies, further limiting employment opportunities and driving up costs for businesses already struggling to cope with unreliable services.
In the long term, Johannesburg’s infrastructure problems are discouraging business investment and pushing skilled labour out of the city. The South African Chamber of Commerce and Industry business confidence index for July 2024 reflects this sentiment, showing only a marginal improvement of 1.8 index points from the previous year – a gain too modest to counteract the ongoing concerns about local infrastructure and utility reliability. Oosthuizen emphasises that service-delivery failures can serve as a “push factor”, driving businesses to relocate. “Where businesses do not need to be located in Johannesburg, poor service delivery encourages businesses to relocate elsewhere,” he says. This potential exodus of both businesses and workers threatens to further erode Johannesburg’s economic stability, affecting not only established companies, but also informal businesses reliant on formal-sector earnings. Oosthuizen says, “This can undermine local economies, also through the impact of a weakened formal sector (and earnings from the formal sector) on the informal sector.”
Ncube and other Johannesburg residents deserve better. The city’s inability to supply basic utilities like safe power and clean water is a catastrophe that has to be addressed immediately. It’s time to invest in this city’s future and end the cycle of neglect.
Residents of Kanana share their daily struggles of service delivery. Video: Rivaldo Jantjies
FEATURED IMAGE: A visual representation of a dripping communial tap in Kanana. Photo: Rivaldo Jantjies.
Education breeds success, but for some Born Frees to grasp their promised freedom, parents have to make the difficult decision of placing them in schools outside the township – with or without the government’s help in getting them there.
The born-free generation
It is 6am, on a cold, dark morning in the middle of an average 2008 winter. The sun has not yet risen in the cosy three-bedroom Segoale household, yet it is warmed by the steam of multiple drawn baths. My slow movements in waking up are countered by the family of four’s frantic yet seemingly choreographed dance around the house: securing uniforms, jackets and ties in a flurry of green and red, the colours of our primary school. A 10-year-old Tumi Segoale, who had been awake for at least an hour, sits on the couch and offers me a warm bowl of cereal while I chase the sleep from my eyes. “Dude, when do you sleep?” I ask him as I sit down, exhausted from the rush. “I usually use the drive to school to catch up. You get used to it. But we let you sleep in a bit.”
Itumeleng ‘Tumi’ Segoale starting his accounting articles in 2021. Photo: Nancy Segoale/Supplied
Tumi Segoale’s story, navigating the opportunities available to him as a Born Free, reflects the truth President Cyril Ramaphosa attempted to allude to in his story of Tintswalo. It is not a tale of fantasy, but real struggle – and, more importantly, effort – to get into the desired middle class, which many people often find to be a mirage.
The born-free generation are democracy’s children: those “born without the burden of apartheid”, either after 1990, the year Nelson Mandela was released from prison, or post-1994, the year of the first democratic election. Supposedly, Born Frees are able to enjoy a standard of living and a recovering economy withheld from their parents.
The latest Quarterly Labour Force Survey from Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) shows that unemployment among people with less than a matric is 30% higher than among those who have graduated from a tertiary institution. Born Frees, therefore, need to access education before they can access this economic advantage.
Itumeleng “Tumi” Segoale was born in 1998 at the Johannesburg Hospital. He has stayed in the same house in Jabulani, Soweto for as long as he can remember. “Listening to my parents talk about how they grew up and how tough it was… it dawned on me just how flippin’ lucky we are that we were born at the right time,” he says.
Children’s Geographies published a study exploring the relationship between school choice and geography in Soweto. As a result of the apartheid-era Bantu Education Act, the educational policy of schools and the resources devoted to the specific institutions were wholly determined along racial lines.
What this created, even in the democratic era, is a legacy of well-performing, well-resourced schools typically found in “white” areas. “It has left behind a persistent set of geographically defined inequalities in educational infrastructure and resources,” the study states. According to South African Policy, a learner is considered to attend a “local” school if they travel a maximum of 3km from their home. The study notes that about a third of children between1997 and 2003 travelled more than 3km to school, with about 20% travelling more than 10km.
Tumi Mashiane, the executive manager’s assistant of the Southern African Bus Operators Association, contextualises the transport system before 1994. “Pre-democracy, the transport system was fragmented, largely serving affluent areas while neglecting townships. Infrastructure was underfunded and often inadequate.”
In 1996, the national government released the White Paper on National Transport Policy in an attempt to address these disparities. Former minister of transport Sindisiwe Chikunga reiterated its goal in June 2024, saying the White Paper “articulated a mission that promoted the use of public transport over private transport…. This system would be designed in such a way as to improve levels of accessibility for all.” The National Land Transport Strategic Framework outlined the national land transport strategy. It also established key performance indicators (KPI) to track the progress of policies and strategic initiatives – KPIs that the government continues to struggle to meet. So by 2004, when considering which school to place their child in, if Tumi’s parents aimed to “escape” the legacy of apartheid, they needed to send him to a school with better resources, outside Soweto. They were not the only parents in Soweto to make this decision. In 1996, the Mail & Guardian reported that tens of thousands of parents in Soweto chose to send their children to schools in wealthier suburbs.travelling more than 10km.
2004 to 2011: Primary school begins
Bedfordview is a quiet suburb in eastern Johannesburg. Some 14,000 people populate the calm streets, with two-thirds of them being white and English-speaking. Tumi attended Bedfordview Primary School (BPS), one of the few public schools in the suburb. The well-known school is surrounded by a bright, green fence, providing just enough space to see the six-lane swimming pool and newly built classrooms glimmering in the sunlight. The opposite side of the school hosts the general pick-up and drop-off area. This is well-paved with a gorgeous exposed brick display, sponsored, in part, by the students and parents through a buy-a-brick campaign. The school takes advantage of its location in a suburb where the average cost of a property is just shy of R3-million. Tumi’s parents worked near the school and it became the natural choice to send their son there.
Reflecting on this decision, he tells me, “There’s always a weird conception about… going to school in the hood that I’ve seen and it’s not good.” Tumi felt he attended a school that forced him to take his education seriously, an experience his friends attending local schools did not receive. In 2010, Soweto had 60 underperforming schools; other townships, such as Sharpeville, Tembisa and Mamelodi, recorded only 10 each. Then MEC of education Barbara Creecy hosted a summit to address the extensive rate of underperforming schools in Soweto compared to other townships. Although many parents were now placing their children in wealthier, “white” schools, resources were not necessarily committed to match this increase in mobility.
With apartheid’s legacy of confining black people outside urban centres, public transport infrastructure could not adequately address urban development in overpopulated, under-resourced areas like Soweto. “We have a new tendency called the urban sprawl, meaning areas coming into existence not far outside our urban centres of work and or residence,” says Lunga Jacobs, a lecturer and researcher in the Department of Transport at the University of Johannesburg (UJ).
One KPI set out in the 1996 White Paper was an average travel time to work of less than an hour. Every morning, during peak traffic, Tumi would spend up to an hour-and-a-half on the road to get to school. The government had 10 years to make schooling more accessible for students like Tumi, who attended BPS the year after this milestone was meant to be achieved. At this time, taxis from Soweto dropped their passengers off at the Eastgate Mall taxi rank, a 35-minute walk to the school. Fortunately, Tumi attended school near his parents’ work and they could drive him. Unfortunately, due to a budget shortfall in the billions, expired bus contracts from 1997 were renewed on a short-term basis, ranging from month-to-month to three years. Short contracts and underfunding required prioritising the maintenance of the ageing bus fleet, preventing conductors from adding additional routes to meet passenger demands. When contracts were offered, none were awarded. Therefore, any bus routes entering Bedfordview (and similar areas) did not travel deep enough into the suburb to reach Tumi’s school. “[W]e in transport… have a term called ‘sunk cost’… meaning it’s costs you forgo for the benefits you will reap on the infrastructure over the long term,” Jacobs says. But without such outlay, bus owners are unable to effectively plan for the future of urban development.
A rea vaya bus in a state of disrepair. Photo: Thato Gololo
2012 to 2016: Imperfect progress
“In high school it got even worse. At Jeppe it was more strict that I be at school [on time]. So [… we] became a lot more [disciplined]. [W]e needed to be ready to leave the house at six…” Tumi says. He is not alone. Stats SA found that almost 30% of students in 2013 had to leave home between 6am and 7am to make it to school on time. “Why didn’t you use other methods [of transport]?” I ask. “[Because I’m] living next to actual thieves,” he responds.
Safety is a concern surrounding any method of public transport, whether rail, bus or taxi. “I was so terrified that once I had a phone, if it got stolen, my parents just wouldn’t have the cash to buy it for me,” Tumi says. Stats SA’s National Household Travel Survey continuously emphasises this same sentiment. The 2013 survey, specifically, demonstrated that households had to wait even longer to access public transport than previously, with their journey times increasing. This lack of reliability, combined with safety concerns, likely contributed to the increase in private vehicles on the road, directly contradicting the government’s KPI of decreasing private-vehicle use. More than two-thirds of people in the country now use taxis as a means of transport, but the taxi sector is a notoriously difficult industry for the government to regulate. Although taxis are an affordable method of transport, the industry is marred by ‘intimidation, lawlessness [and a] lack of vehicle safety protocols’. A study on transport economics reflected on taxis’ increasing market share, saying that, should other means of transport not be developed, “The country will soon become entirely dependent on the informal minibus taxi industry.” A haunting warning of what was to come.
2016 to 2021: Independence comes at a cost
Tumi’s parents reflect differently on those same formative years. For them, their mode of transport was less about convenience and more about the money they saved by travelling together as a family. The National Household Travel Survey shows the proportion of income spent on transport has been increasing. In 2020, more than 30% of households spent more than 10% of their income on public transport. Another KPI not met.
The taxi industry, with its increasing market share in transport (almost 90% of the country at this point), is not subsidised by the government in the same way as the train and bus systems. Olga Mashilo, the director of Boleng Bontle Consultants, which specialises in transport and logistics research, says that a major contributor to the expense of transport is the cost of fuel. “We’re putting too much [in]to the fuel levy and there is no return on investment when you look at the infrastructure,” she says.
Nevertheless, craving independence, and to avoid that early morning struggle his parents still experience, Tumi began to actively explore his options during university. When he started at UJ, he discovered a web of transport allowing him to arrive at school at his leisure. Going to UJ’s Soweto campus allowed him to take a shuttle directly to the main campus. After that it was a simple Rea Vaya bus to anywhere else in the city. This is a path that many students in Soweto follow.
Near the end of Tumi’s primary school days, the City of Johannesburg introduced the Rea Vaya bus system, in preparation for the 2010 football World Cup. Its large red buses were reminiscent of the Metro bus system they were introduced to replace. With many abandoned bus stations scattered throughout the city – some of them complete, but lacking the staff and accompanying buses that populate the operational stations – many passengers pack the taxi ranks to travel home. Although the Rea Vaya system remains incomplete, it carries Tumi and many others like him from Soweto to and through Johannesburg for as little as R10 – a price possible only due to government subsidisation.
The Bellevue Rea Vaya station. Like many other incomplete stations, there is 24/7 security to ensure the structure is not looted. But this station is unique in that the surrounding traffic lights also do not work. Photo: Thato GololoThe Park Station Extension Rea Vaya station on the corner of Rissik and Wolmarans streets. Construction began in 2021 and continues till today with workers still assembling the hand rails. Photo: Thato Gololo
The future awaits – if you can drive there
Living in the same house in Jabulani – now by himself – Tumi is responsible for his own food, expenses and transport. After spending late nights playing PlayStation, he wakes up early to start his day. His work as a trainee auditor takes him all over the province, occasionally as far as Pretoria. The days spent in the central business district made him realise how traversable a city Johannesburg has become. Despite this, more than half of Johannesburg learners still walk to school, driven only by their resilience.
To survive this city, you’ve got to have thick soles. And, if you can’t drive, walk.
FEATURED IMAGE: The vandalised sign of the Orchards Clinic Rea Vaya station. While the structure was completed in 2020, the actual station has yet to open. Photo by: Thato Gololo
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