Two years after the Usindiso building fire, inner-City residents still wait for answers from the city of Johannesburg.
Darkness, green-water puddles and the stench of blocked sewage welcome you as you walk through the streets of Doornfontein, in the inner city of Johannesburg. A part of the City of Gold that has now turned into the city of filth. Yet Mother Nature continues to do what she does best: the Jacaranda trees bloom, their purple flowers desperately trying to make the streets of Angle Road pleasing to the eye.
Two years ago, thick smoke engulfed the city’s sky and wails of loss filled the air as 77 people died when the Usindiso building caught fire. One would have thought that this tragedy would prompt the city council to act, make buildings safe and secure. But that’s just a wild dream for the residents of the Linatex Building.
Doornfontein’s decaying buildings stand along 27 Angle road, where crumbling infrastructure shapes daily life. Photo: Likho Mbuka
Yet amid the decay, small acts of resilience persist. Men sit on plastic chairs beside the road, passing around quarts of beer. A few metres ahead, women join them, laughing in low tones as taxis idle nearby. Beyond the parked cars, the Linatex Building rises like a scar, paint peeled away, windows replaced with plywood, entrance dark and damp. Water pools at the doorway, spilling from a broken pipe inside.
This is where 52 families call home. Inside, life continues despite the city’s absence.
Walk down Angle Road today and you’ll see the skeleton of what Doornfontein once was. The Linatex Building, with its art deco bones and high ceilings, still hints at the suburb’s industrial glory; when it was Johannesburg’s first residential neighbourhood, alive with the clatter of factories and the hum of workers streaming to and from the mines.
Through much of the 20th century, these narrow streets buzzed with purpose. Workshops spilled oil onto pavements. Warehouses stored goods bound for the gold economy. Workers lived in tight quarters above the factories, their children playing in alleyways that smelled of diesel and ambition.
But when apartheid ended, capital moved north. The money followed Sandton’s glass towers and manicured business parks, leaving Doornfontein’s buildings to rot. First went the machinery. Then the workers. Then the owners. Roofs began to leak. Drains clogged with debris no one came to clear. Damp crept up the walls, turning them black with mould.
Doornfontein’s decline
By the early 2000s, families had arrived: displaced workers, migrants, people seeking shelter close to schools and taxi routes. They moved into the hollow shells of Linatex, of Walpert Motors on Janie Street, of a dozen other abandoned buildings. They paid rent to whoever claimed to be in charge.
The City of Johannesburg has a name for these places: “hijacked buildings.” Properties abandoned by owners, now occupied and managed informally. The city says syndicates control some of them, extracting illegal rent from desperate tenants.
But the Socio-Economic Rights Institute (SERI) calls it something else: survival. The argue that the term “hijacked” criminalises people who occupy these spaces not out of greed, but out of having nowhere else to go.
According to SERI, many residents pay rent often to informal caretakers, and take on repairs themselves, patching leaks and unclogging drains that the City ignores.
“People occupy these buildings because they have nowhere else to go,” said SERI’s Osmond Mngomezulu. “The City’s failure to provide safe, affordable housing forces them to choose between homelessness and hazard.”
The narrative of mass hijacking is repeated by city officials and in the media. The facts tell a different story.
In September 2025, the Commission of Inquiry into the Usindiso Building fire released findings that shattered that assumption.
The evidence found by the Commission does not support the idea that criminal syndicates have “taken over” inner-city buildings. Only 5,74% of properties showed alleged rent collection by non-owners. Instead, the Commission pointed to poverty and a critical shortage of affordable housing as the root causes driving people into unsafe buildings.
“Bad buildings or unsafe buildings are routinely described as hijacked,” the report noted with undertones suggesting that the occupiers are the hijackers.
The Commission went further: it discouraged the City of Johannesburg and political office bearers from using the word “hijacked” at all. The term, they said, is pejorative, it criminalises the poor for surviving.
Yet the label persists. And so does the city’s neglect.
Plastic waste and a cooking drum fire stand outside Linatex. Photo: Likho Mbuka
Surviving Linatex
Outside the Linatex Building, Fredah Motshwane stands at the entrance, surrounded by plastic crates stacked like a makeshift barrier against the street. She is the first person I meet that morning; she waves me over and guides me through the damp corridor, her flip-flops slapping against the wet concrete.
“We moved here on 1 June 2014, after the fire burned the third floor of the Moth Building near Park Station,” she says, her voice calm but steady. She gestures toward the darkened stairwell behind her.
“I have kids, but they don’t stay with me anymore. After Usindiso, I sent them home. I was scared.”
Motshwane doesn’t pay rent. She survives on occasional domestic work and small handouts. “The City says this place is hijacked, but it’s the same City that brought us here,” she adds, folding her arms across her chest.
She pauses, listening to the sound of water dripping somewhere deep inside the building. “Since then, no one has come back. The roof leaks, the toilets are blocked, and we fetch water outside. Still, this is home.”
Inside, the building tells its own story. On the first floor, a single light bulb flickers over a narrow passage. Electrical wires snake along the ceiling, patched together with tape and rope. The walls sweat from moisture, paint peel in long strips. The air smells faintly of burning paraffin and mildew.
At the corner, a small room glows with warm light. Inside, David Thabethe stands behind a wooden counter no bigger than a school desk in his tuckshop.
“This is how I survive,” he says, handing a loaf of bread to a young woman clutching coins. Packets of chips hang on nails on the wall.
“Even when the water stops or the lights go, we still try. The city forgot about us. But we still plan,” he adds.
Further down the corridor, the smell of damp grows stronger. Vusumuzi Dwyili appears from a doorway, gesturing at a broken pipe leaking onto the floor. “That light?” He points at the flickering bulb. “We fixed it ourselves. When something breaks, we fix it. The city hasn’t been here for years.”
His one-room home, barely big enough for a bed and a cupboard, has no windows. The door doesn’t close properly, and a curtain serves as his only privacy.
Life in the cracks of a world-class City
Johannesburg brands itself as a “world-class African city.” Billboards promise innovation, investment, glass towers reaching for the sky. Yet for residents of Doornfontein, that slogan feels like a cruel joke.
The city’s own records list over 600 “bad buildings” in the inner city, structures deemed unsafe or illegally occupied. Linatex is one of them. In a 2024 media statement, the City’s Human Settlements Department confirmed that the building is used for “temporary emergency accommodation” and is “under assessment.” Repairs to plumbing, wiring, and waterproofing were promised. Plans to remove “illegal occupants” were mentioned.
No public timelines have been released. Two years after Usindiso. Two years of waiting.
Nearby, at Walpert Motors and Lalanathi, the story is the same. Both are privately owned, and the city insists the owners are responsible for maintenance under municipal by-laws. The City’s “bad buildings strategy,” managed by the Office of the Chief Operating Officer, promises to “improve safety and ensure lawful occupancy through assessments, partnerships with owners, and gradual relocation of residents.”
But SERI researchers say this language masks something simpler: systemic neglect. “It’s easier to call people illegal than to confront the housing crisis,” Mngomezulu says. “The City’s constitutional duty is to provide safe, alternative accommodation before eviction. Yet it seldom does so.”
The numbers tell their own story
The Usindiso Commission of Inquiry, convened after the 2023 fire, found that up to 188 buildings in the inner city lacked basic fire-safety compliance. 65% had no working extinguishers. 80% had exposed electrical wiring or blocked emergency exits. Many had no provision of basic services, no water, no electricity, no sanitation, no refuse removal.
The Commission’s recommendations were clear: provide basic services to bad buildings immediately. Invest in infrastructure. Adopt a coherent plan to address homelessness, including a recalibrated Inner City Housing Implementation Plan (ICHIP).
Sizwe Pamla, spokesperson for the Gauteng Premier, confirms that the report has been received.
“The city manager is responsible for ensuring compliance with the Occupational Health and Safety Act,” he says. “The Department of Employment and Labour holds broader enforcement responsibilities.”
The report’s release, he adds, will be finalised once “an opening in the Premier’s schedule” allows.
For residents like Motshwane, the delay feels like an afterthought.
“They talk about safety, but we’re still here in danger,” she says.
Each building tells the same story: survival without state support. At Walpert Motors, now home to forty families, Thobile Zondo sweeps the cracked concrete floor of her one-room space. A thin curtain separates her sleeping area from her cooking corner. Sunlight filters through gaps in the boarded windows.
“We’ve been asking for toilets, for windows, for repairs, but nothing,” she says, leaning her broom against the wall.
She pauses, watching a neighbour carry a bucket of water past her door. “But we clean together. We make this place liveable.”
Their stories expose the contradiction at the heart of Johannesburg’s urban narrative: a city chasing investment and luxury developments while criminalising its poor for surviving. For yearning for basic rights. For wanting dignified living conditions.
From decay to defiance: the spirit of Doornfontein
Just across the road from Linatex, at 32 Van Beek Street, laughter spills from Skateistan, a skateboarding and education centre built between warehouses. Inside, children zip across ramps, their helmets flashing under fluorescent lights. Upstairs, others sit on desks, bent over homework.
Educator Enos Rankwe, once an engineering student, mentors dozens of children daily.
Skating gives young people a sense of freedom and purpose in a city that often forgets them. Photo: Likho Mbuka
“We give them a place to dream,” he says, watching a girl land her first kickflip. “After school, they come here for food, lessons, and skating. We teach kindness, not just tricks.”
For many of these children, some from Linatex and Walpert, Skateistan is the only space where childhood feels safe.
“Here, they’re free,” Rankwe says. “Even for an hour, they forget what’s waiting at home.”
Dr. Yvette Esprey, a clinical psychologist at Wits University, calls this “social cohesion in motion.”
“Shared, creative spaces like Skateistan rebuild trust and agency in environments shaped by trauma,” she said. “They’re a counterbalance to neglect.”
Crispyboards’ inner-city skatepark gives skaters like Slayde and Zev a space of freedom and movement. Photo: Likho Mbuka
Yet the contrast is stark. The city’s Joburg 2040 Growth and Development Strategy (GDS) envision a “world-class African city” built on innovation, inclusivity, and resilience. Ten years have passed since former mayor of Johannesburg, Parks Tau’s address promising to turn “challenges into opportunities.”
The inner city reflects something else: systemic inertia.
SERI estimates that over 20,000 people live in “bad buildings” across the inner city, including migrants, women-led households, workers earning below the minimum wage. Despite commitments to refurbish or relocate residents, the city’s Special Projects Unit has not released a public progress report since 2022.
Edward Molopi from SERI is blunt: “The city’s approach frames inner-city poverty as criminality rather than a housing crisis. People are forced into these conditions because they’ve been excluded from formal housing markets. Instead of support, they face raids, evictions, and stigma.”
Tomorrows city, today’s neglect
As the afternoon light fades, the children at Skateistan roll past the decaying walls of Linatex. Their laughter echoes down the street, bright, defiant, alive.
In Doornfontein, survival is not passive. It’s an act of protest. From Fredah’s determination to keep her children safe, to Thobile’s daily cleaning of a floor that isn’t hers, to Enos’s skateboarding lessons, each story reveals a city sustained not by policy, but by people.
For all the city’s promises of being “world-class,” perhaps Johannesburg’s real greatness lies elsewhere: in the resilience of its poorest residents. In their refusal to give up on a place that has already given up on them.
Crispyboards’ inner-city skatepark gives skaters like Slayde and Zev a space of freedom and movement. Photo: Likho Mbuka
FEATURED IMAGE: Johannesburg’s inner city is notorious for decay and danger, yet its young skaters carve out pockets of freedom in the midst of it. Photo: Likho Mbuka
In Johannesburg, the status of a “world-class city” is measured by the hours, not just its economic output.
By 5am, Gauteng’s workforce is already in motion, streaming in from across the province towards the City of Gold that is Johannesburg. It is a daily mass pilgrimage made not just on the clean, rapid lines of the Gautrain, or the humming rows of traffic from the city’s suburbs but also on the crammed, frantic routes of taxi ranks and bus stops. It’s a real reflection of the country’s geographical challenges, and daily obligations of citizens earning their pay.
A morning sunrise in Rosebank Photo: Katlego Makhutle
This collective of largely hidden figures is the true pulse of Johannesburg, with millions of individual sacrifices made by those determined to “Dala what they must”, which means to do what you can in any situation – or to simply survive long enough to make their dreams come true. For the average South African citizen, the early alarm clock ringing at 6:24am isn’t a badge of honour branding them a ‘morning person’.
South Africa has been noted to have the world’s earliest risers. The reason behind this eye-opening average is brutally practical; many people get up early to plan for their daily commute to work. It is considered the norm for many citizens to get up as early as 4am, which is often to avoid the delays caused by bustling morning traffic.
Most South Africans rely on complex public transport routes, required to beat peak morning traffic or take lengthy walks across concrete pillars, so an exceptionally early start is the only way to conquer the long, arduous commutes from distant homes to city-based workspaces. The enduring legacy of Apartheid’s spatial planning has forced many Johannesburg workers into gruelling daily commutes to and from their jobs. Historically segregated townships remain distant from the central hubs of economic opportunity, which drastically impacts these workers’ hours and productivity. For some workers, it’s easier and more cost-efficient to stay in the Johannesburg region, in comparison to other parts of Gauteng.
Data visualization Photo: Katlego Makhutle
Vuka ma o lele!
Waking up at 6:24am is a necessity that underpins South Africa’s daily grind. The morning sunlight catches the dust motes on the windscreens of cars and taxis, as the masses travel toward the heart of the corporate hub, embodying a nearly spiritual commitment to the golden dream of a better life. The City of Johannesburg showcases an ambitious morning momentum that drives the engine of Africa’s biggest economic headquarters, where glass towers and tall buildings are symbols of the global economy reflected in Africa. These are the modern gold reefs of Johannesburg, representing the wealth and opportunity that draw talent from Pretoria and Soweto.
Kabelo Ramphele, a Chartered Accountant (CA) and Associate Director at KPMG, is not just measuring columns of figures; he is navigating the complex, high-stakes game of Johannesburg’s corporate environment. Raised in Soweto, his recent promotion was quickly followed by a life-defining milestone: signing his first official audit opinion. The gravity of this achievement is rooted in his journey, which was a demanding path that started with the challenge of earning a CA designation, which he recalls as the moment his “life completely changed.”
Ramphele stresses that the transition from student to entry-level employee to executive requires an aggressive shift in mindset, moving from self-directed studies to a defined accountability to corporate. “You need to go from, ‘I own my time’, to ‘my time is now paid for by someone else’,” he explains. For Ramphele, planning is the bedrock of his performance, noting the critical truth that “those who fail to plan, plan to fail.” His commitment to structure is evident even in his morning ritual: his alarm is set for 6:15am, though he admits he doesn’t fully wake up till 7am – with the very first order of business in the office being a cup of coffee.
“You’ve got to play the game…”
Ramphele views the workplace as a constantly evolving arena, a “game that you never knew existed.” Entering the corporate sector is not simply about conforming but mastering the art of observation. He advocates for authenticity as the ultimate tool for career longevity. “Authenticity will actually get you the furthest,” he asserts, reinforcing the need for difference to spark genuine change. For those who seek influence, he states the most important part of the game is “being at the table to play the game… I think the best leaders are observers. People who observe, they listen, they watch, then they act.”
Kabelo Ramphele, Chartered Accountant (CA) and Associate Director at KPMG Photo: Katlego Makhutle
Despite his focus on goal setting, Ramphele maintains a critical perspective on the relentless nature of the corporate grind. If he could change one thing about Johannesburg’s professional culture, it would be the pervasive “hustle mentality”, which he describes as a non-stop and non-productive action. He proposes that corporate burnout is merely a symptom of the same institutional inefficiency that the World Bank has cited as a primary impediment to South Africa’s desperately needed inclusive growth.
The World Bank recognises Johannesburg as the largest single metropolitan contributor to the national economy, holding around 16% of South Africa’s GDP and 40% of the GDP of Gauteng province. The estimated number of employed people sits at 2,06-million. The City of Johannesburg Annual Economic Review (2025) reports that the non-agricultural formal employment in Johannesburg makes up 1,69-million, out of the 10 million employees in South Africa. It is estimated that approximately 81.7% of Johannesburg’s labour market is in involved in formal employment.
While balancing the pressures of a demanding career with becoming a new father, Ramphele sees his primary professional role as driving change within a city that is increasingly “Africanised” by diverse, ambitious talent migrating from across the continent. He notes that the constant pressure to “go, go, go” often sacrifices the things that truly matter such as family, friends, and personal well-being. Reflecting on his own happiness, he finds a stark contrast between his disciplined adult life and the simple, unrestricted joy of his childhood, concluding that the pursuit of professional goals “doesn’t exude happiness.” Ramphele says that people seeking to enter the city’s corporate world must answer the call for balance, where success must be sustained-not just chased.
Infographic Photo: Katlego Makhutle
Don’t lose yourself under the city’s bright lights
Ayanda Tshabalala’s journey into the corporate world provides a sharp, contemporary portrait of a young female professional determined to succeed on her own terms. A manager of professional practice for Audit and Assurance at KPMG, her story is one of autonomy and the unyielding belief that corporate achievement should not come at the expense of personal peace or communal warmth. While Ramphele is focused on sitting at the table to play the game, Tshabalala is focused on maintaining her personal autonomy in the game that threatens to extinguish it.
Tshabalala admits that the transition from student to professional was “hard”, primarily because of the intense human friction she encountered as a CA, citing “micromanagers, who kind of makes you feel like they don’t trust you.” This initial struggle cemented her focus: her career would be defined by a fight for control over her personal space and time. For Tshabalala, maintaining that flexibility is non-negotiable because it is the critical factor that allows “a work-life balance as well.”
Her ambition is evidently not for status alone; her greatest achievement, she says, was “exceeding expectations” at work while simultaneously guarding her personal time. This priority on balance is informed by a global perspective she gained on her travels abroad. She contrasts her experience in London, whose culture she describes as “very rigid” and its people “very cold,” with her home city, where she notes that the social climate “is much warmer.” For a driven young woman in corporate, the culture must be balanced by the social connection and warmth that she often feels in Johannesburg.
Evolve or atrophy
Tshabalala’s perspective highlights a subtle distrust of traditional leadership, where she feels that the people who uphold dated corporate standards “don’t always think about the future.” Tshabalala’s narrative ultimately offers a model of success built not on playing a game, but on aiming to create an environment where authenticity and humanity can genuinely thrive alongside traditional models of success. Unlike looking up at the executive floor for change, Tshabalala places her faith in the influences from the ground up, believing that the true drivers of change are “the service staff and the young people.”
The person clocking into their shift at 6am to guard the main gates or the worker arriving to sterilise the executive floors, all who have travelled this journey still feel Apartheid’s legacy whilst navigating commutes that stretch into the hour-and-a-half range each way. They are essential to the city’s early morning buzz, part of the underpaid motion that provides the foundations for the city’s high-speed profits, a living, breathing reflection of South Africa’s persistently high Gini coefficient. So, the city presents itself not as a perfect metropolitan narrative, but in a dazzling yet deeply scarred duality.
One side offers the promise of prosperity, a place where fortunes are made and global capital flows freely. The other is a relentless struggle for dignity; a world where the proximity to wealth only amplifies its absence amongst the majority. My inquiry into the corporate world begins not just in the executive suite, but also at the perimeter, with the one figure whose vantage point sits on the fence of both realities: the security guard. Lindani Nkanini is the warm, uniformed witness to the systemic forces that elevate one’s life into a jet-setting career while others crash under the pressures of “making it”.
Keeping himself firmly rooted in the soil of his humble beginnings in KwaZulu-Natal, Nkanini’s story presents a view that asks the ultimate yet painful question: If Johannesburg is a world-class city, then who exactly can consider this city as ‘world-class’?
“Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu!”
Born in Jozini, under uMhlabuyalingana District Municipality, Nkanini came to Johannesburg in 2015 to escape what he describes as “poor background” and to support his family. After working in an underpaying job at a furniture factory, he decided to pursue security services. In our conversations, I was struck by the delight that he is passionate about safety and law enforcement – not just in his work. Nearly nine years later, Nkanini went from a position as an ATM security guard at Rosebank Mall to being an internal security escort at KPMG, one of the “Big Four” firms that also includes Ernst and Young, PwC and Deloitte.
On a regular workday, he works a 12-hour straight shift from 6am to 6pm. Nkanini wakes up at 4am to get ready and leaves his flat in Maboneng at 5:10am, noting that he often arrives right before 6am. Nkanini states that the start of his career did not go as planned but he still aims to see progress in his life. “So, since things are actually not going well, I decided to just do something that can at least keep my dream, maybe one day be prosperous, but unfortunately, I’m still stuck with security, but one day I just hope things will happen,” he states.
Nkanini has always kept his dream of being a teacher alive, sharing a wide smile when discussing his desire to still pursue it. He states that his hardest challenge has been managing people and engaging with different personalities despite his rural upbringing. He describes it as limited due to the lack of knowledge shared about different career paths and the lack of racial diversity that surrounded him.
Data Visualization Photo: Katlego Makhutle
A first-hand witness of the hard work and long hours corporate employees go through, Nkanini expresses sympathy for the sacrifices they make to grow and earn a living in Johannesburg. He often sees workers come early and leave late, expressing his intent to always show a friendly face and provide them comfort. This comfort often comes in the form of a conversation and the reassurance of their safety, as he often observes people working late hours to meet deadlines, or young graduates making their mark in a new work environment.
Describing himself as a humble yet stubborn Zulu man, Nkanini is often seen around the offices with a friendly smile, greeting people warmly as he goes about his daily responsibilities. He highlights that he enjoys making employees feel safe and that respect is a quality that is innately within him. From his experience in retail and corporate Johannesburg, he feels that he has had a lot of growth and has managed to adapt well to the city’s dynamic environment.
Asking whether Johannesburg is a world-class city is perhaps the wrong question. It implies a single, universal standard that the City of Gold was never designed to meet. Under the weight of opportunity, the price of progress is often paid in resilience. The early bird gets the worm and Joburg doesn’t just run on municipal services alone; it thrives on the relentless and personal commitment of its employed citizens. It is a city that doesn’t just promise opportunity; it demands you fight for it. It is not a matter of whether Johannesburg is world-class, but whether any other world-class city can boast of having an African heart, that is ambitious and unapologetically alive from sunrise to sunset.
FEATURED IMAGE: GIF of Johannesburg city during sunrise, with camera and nob on orange background. GIF: Katlego Makhutle
Johannesburg may often be defined as the economic hub of Africa but the quiet drum of a beat, is what makes it the capital of African entertainment.
What exactly constitutes a world-class city? Some would define Johannesburg as world-class purely on its standing as the financial and economic hub of South Africa, as the city is home to Africa’s largest stock exchange, the JSE. Others, however, would designate it as world-class city because of its rich culture.
What most South Africans have in common is their love and passion for entertainment, and specifically for music. The ever-readiness to have a good time. And for many South Africans, the common denominator to having a good time often involves music, whether it’s at a small braai, a sports gathering or a party, an activity many have come to recognise as “groove”. Music must always be present.
But this goes far beyond a small gathering. Going to a concert is unlike any other activity. Being surrounded by thousands of people with a shared love of music creates an electrifying state of euphoria.
The excitement of being united by one singular goal: to sing your heart out and have fun with the realisation that you’re inhabiting a space designed purely for unforgettable moments. It’s the thrill of seeing your favourite artist live, knowing this might be the only time you get to experience their performance.
The deafening cheers of fans as the stage lights flash, the beams echoing the crowd’s excitement. Every moment – the fun memories of singing along to your favourite melody, the endless photos and videos that will serve as proof – is worth it, leaving you wishing you could turn back time and relive it. South Africa is becoming the leading destination for international performers and Joburg has recently re-emerged as one of the foremost tourist destinations on the continent.
Behind the scenes: the stage crew assembles stage in preparation for upcoming event. Photo: Nthabeleng Phayane
But let’s be honest, the cost of going to these events is not cheap. Beyond the actual ticket, many concert goers have to consider the transport to the venue, the cost of food and drinks and most importantly, an outfit that will leave you feeling your best self.
For 33-year-old Rushe Cawa, her dedication to concert life comes with a practical plan, “I’ve got a secret fund that I contribute to monthly for concert tickets,” she admits.
Originally hailing from Cape Town, Cawa lives and works in Johannesburg and proudly describes herself as a “Johannesgirlburg.” “I can practically say that I’m from here,” she says, “I’ve been here longer than I’ve been in Cape Town,” highlighting her strong connection to the city, along with its culture.
“This is definitely a lifestyle for me,” she says with a hint of humour in her voice. “It’s the only time I take myself out of the house.”
Only cementing her love for live music, Cawa has been to multiple concerts and festivals across the country, one month she’s vibing at a jazz festival, the next she’s singing along at a soul and R&B session and then after that she is uplifted at a gospel gathering. Her ultimate drive for the endless shows, is FOMO (fear of missing out). “I don’t like to miss out on things,” she says.
For Cawa, it’s more than just about missing an event – she explains that it’s also a learning experience. “When you go to festivals, you expose yourself to a lot more genres than what you would normally listen to,” she says.
For anyone following her active TikTok presence, which acts as her diary of show accounts and knowledge, her passion is quite clear. Her commitment began early. Her first ever concert was The People’s Celebration in 2006, headlined by US rappers Pharrel and Snoop Dogg, and has remained her fondest memory. “It was mind-blowing,” she reminisces. “I think that is where my love for concerts started.” Even with her endless list of attended shows, she is not done yet as one single R&B singer remains on her checklist, “Cleo Sol!” she exclaims longingly as her secret fund continues to grow for that ultimate ticket.
The infrastructure to back it
But what makes music events in Johannesburg so appealing? What truly cements it as Africa’s go-to city for world tours? The answer is in the infrastructure.
Live music venues are paramount in making a show feel and look world class. Some of the biggest events in South Africa have been hosted in Johannesburg, including the 2018 Global Citizen’s Festival: Mandela 100, which celebrated the life and legacy of Nelson Mandela. It was headlined by some of the world’s biggest pop superstars such as Beyoncé and Jay-Z. All which could not have been possible without the appropriate infrastructure.
To have a show of that magnitude starts with the scale. FNB Stadium (previously known as Soccer City) was originally built between 1987 and 1989. It is the largest stadium in Africa, with the capacity to hold 94 000 fans. It was upgraded in 2009 in preparation for the d historic 2010 FIFA World Cup, which was the first ever held on the African continent. Since then, it has become the primary venue for large music events.
However, Johannesburg’s appeal extends far beyond a single venue. Ellis Park Stadium, Teatro, Lyric Theatre and the Linder Auditorium are just a few of many, making Joburg the leader of entertainment on the continent.
Technical crew in action, brining the stage to life before showtime. Photo: Nthabeleng Phayane
The city’s strength lies in its reliable logistics, providing everything from the convenience of OR Tambo International Airport for touring artists to the high-speed Gautrain that quickens attendee travel. “We have the best road networks,” says Lumka Dlomo, destination marketing manager at Johannesburg Tourism Company (JTC), and who has been involved in multiple events such as Joy of Jazz and Miss World 2008.
For Cawa, having all these venues in Johannesburg comes at a great convenience as compared to other venues in the country. “I’m not [that] open to traveling to Pretoria, it’s tough to travel all the way, unless it’s someone really big that I definitely want to see” she says. “The venues in Joburg just make sense,” she says.
The audience only ever get to witness the final performance of their favourite artist. But beneath the bright lights and the towering waves of speakers, there are countless people who work tirelessly in the background to ensure that the production of a show is truly world-class.
Who, then, are the masterminds orchestrating this amazing display? That engine starts with the promoters.
Big Concerts is the undisputed live entertainment company responsible for promoting and bringing almost every major international artist to South African arenas and stadiums in the last three decades. Their impressive portfolio includes global musicians such as One Direction, Elton John, and Justin Bieber. But behind the promoters is the critical backbone, technical suppliers such as Gearhouse Group, a leading technical supplier for the live event industry in South Africa. They are the essential suppliers who are consistently able to meet the standards of putting together a world-class stage.
Technical crew coordinate to lift and install equipment during event setup. Photo: Nthabeleng Phayane
When handling a major international show, Gearhouse confirms that their planning process can typically start up to a year or more in advance. In a written reply, the company informs me that: “We work to the timeline of the clients,” This process usually involves research, logistics planning and execution of a show.
With the commitment to constantly invest in the quality of their work, the company routinely acquires equipment for both local and international events. If a specific piece cannot be sourced locally, they lean on strong international supplier relationships ensuring that no element of production is compromised.
The core technical crew on show day is a lot of hands, “We will have around 60 local crew on site,” they estimate. In addition, Gearhouse attribute the seamless execution of production to the first stages of preparation as every show and venue differs. “A big aspect of it is the pre-production preparation.”
The company confirms that their biggest focus area “involves delivering events that meet clients’ expectations and requires attention to every aspect of our services and full compliance with health and safety regulations,” echoing Dlomo’s statement that “JTC’s job is to ensure that event organisers adhere to all bylaws and conditions of the municipality.”
According to Gearhouse, there is no single one element that defines a world class production, “It starts with the performance of the artist… a happy client equals world-class.”
The rhythm to economic injection
Live music events don’t just serve as entertainment for concert goers; they also provide a big economic boost for the country.
Ticket sales for live music in South Africa generated R1,4-billion in revenue, the largest on the continent, completely overshadowing other major African markets such as Kenya and Nigeria, which both generated only R17-million in live ticket revenue, according to PwC’s Africa Entertainment & Media Outlook 2025-2029.
Moreover, according to the South African Cultural Observatory’s 2022 Economic Mapping Report, the Cultural and Creative Industries contribute approximately 3% to national GDP, and Gauteng drives 46,5% of that economic activity proving that this isn’t just culture, it’s big business.
For instance, according to an article by TimesLIVE, R&B singer Chris Brown’s two-day sold-out shows held at Johannesburg’s FNB stadium in December 2024, contributed to a major events weekendthat generated an estimated R900 million to Gauteng’s economy.
Economic development MMC in Joburg, Nomoya Mnisi, confirmed the economic boost generated for the city: “The concert (Chris Brown’s) has demonstrated the power of world-class entertainment to drive tourism, job creation and business growth in our city.” Johannesburg’s appeal translated to financial value.
She further underscored the event’s importance saying: “We are proud to have hosted an event of this magnitude, which not only showcases Johannesburg as a global hub for arts and culture but also highlights our capacity to facilitate large-scale events that stimulate economic activity.”
It is no secret that events such as this support high-skill jobs, considering the meticulous planning that goes into making them possible. Dlomo states that there are many sectors that get a boost from massive events, these include transportation, accommodation, retail and security services.
When companies and entities often seek the support of the JTC, they ensure that a great percentage of local skills is used. “We encourage that there be a share of skill and access for the smaller businesses, so that they can be uplifted and developed to reach the standards of the big guys.” Dlomo says.
This commitment ensures that hosting world-class events not only injects cash into the city but leaves local businesses with the support and experience that they need.
A creative capital
Joburg is validated not just by the artists who visit it, but by those it exports such as Grammy award winners Tyla and DJ Black Coffee.
The Global Music Report 2025 reports that in the sub-Sahara, Africa saw a recorded music revenue growth of 22,6% and these revenues surpassed US$100 million for the first time. The report also highlights South Africa as the largest market in the region and accounted for 74,6% of the region’s revenues, following a growth of 14,4%.
Additionally, the city also serves as the land of opportunity for upcoming artists. Bangi Makopo, from Johannesburg, who has the hopes of making it big in the industry one day says that Joburg is the best place to thrive as an artist. “It’s the city that has the most promise for up-and-coming artists,” he says, “all the major record labels are here,” adds Makopo.
“Amapiano has put South Africa on the map in a major way,” explains Makopo. “The world wants to know what’s happening in South Africa, what don’t we have?” he asks.
Beneath the lights, Focalistic performs to a packed audience. Photo: Nthabeleng Phayane
We don’t just host global culture, we export it. Amapiano, a South African music genre which translates to “the pianos” in isiZulu, uniquely blends a myriad of other genres such as house, kwaito and jazz. It came up in the early 2010s and has been rising to the top since.
Confirming its popularity as a global phenomenon, Amapiano was streamed on Spotify over 1,4 billion times in 2023, with countries such as the UK and Germany being in the top five listeners of the genre according to Business Day.
A world-class audience
The vibe and energy of South African audiences and the connection they feel towards them are often said to be thing that makes artists love performing in this city.
Cawa attributes the uniqueness of Joburg’ concerts to its audiences. “A Joburg crowd is the best that you can be in, we love a good concert.” She describes it as “an auditioning mindset, for the next artist to come to South Africa.”
The attitude of concert goers in Johannesburg is different. “There’s a bigger appreciation for music as a whole in Joburg compared to Cape Town.” She says that given an option to be in an international audience or being a Joburg audience, she will choose the latter “I will always choose a Joburg crowd… Joburg feels like a warm hug,” she says.
As previously asked by Makopo, what don’t we have? The truth is, there’s not much that we don’t have, we have the infrastructure, the transportation, the big promoters and production companies and lastly, the fans that make up a world-class concert. That is what makes the music and entertainment industry in this country thrive.
This is what undisputedly defines Johannesburg as a world-class African city.
FEATURED IMAGE: Technical crew constructing a stage. Photo: Nthabeleng Phayane
Unpacking the unseen side of Johannesburg, where informal workers keep the city running despite lacking recognition and job security.
The “City of Gold’s” informal workers keep the city running, but remain unprotected and often unseen.
Street vendors and domestic workers form the backbone of the city’s economy, while battling insecurity and police harassment.
Despite promises and policies, informal traders still face eviction and neglect from law officials.
The day’s work starts at dawn, with traders, cleaners and recyclers rousing Johannesburg’s thriving economy through informal trading. It’s 4am on a Thursday morning and Thomas Huuguamze, a 50-year-old street vendor is getting ready to set up his stall on the pavements at Soweto’s Zone 6, Bara taxi rank[LM1] . By 5.30am he needs to have his umbrella and table set up with a colourful spread of sweets for the early-bird taxi riders on their way to work. He is relieved that today it is not raining, otherwise that would mean no trade. No work means no pay, which means he won’t be able to send enough money back home in Mozambique. “My problem is my umbrella,” he says with a tired smile. “When it rains there’s no work for me, I close my shop.”
About 45 minutes away, in Cosmo City, we meet Beauty Moyo, a 35-year-old domestic worker. Before dawn breaks, she is awake, moving quietly through her small kitchen, as she boils water for a bath and packs lunch for her partner of 14 years. By 6.30am he’s out of the door, and only then does she attend to herself. Accompanied by the sounds of bird chirps, she packs a change of clothes in her bag, throws on her jeans and a jacket. The time is 7.30am, so she hurriedly walks to the taxi rank. Her route to Sandton is long and crowded, but she’s used to it. By 9am, she’s ringing the intercom at the gate of a sleek house owned by two lawyer brothers where she’s worked for the past three years. They treat her with respect, and she returns the favour with loyalty and laughter that fills the home. It’s hard work, but she takes pride in it, creating a world different to her own.
Johannesburg is known as Africa’s “City of Gold”, its glass buildings stand tall and twinkle, but its shine relies on the informal sector. Johannesburg’s skyscrapers, Africa’s biggest stock exchange, and corporate headquarters coexist with a foundational city of informal yet essential labourers who keep it running.
Through the lively streets of Cosmo City, Soweto’s taxi ranks, and the inner city’s pavements, the informal sector is the hidden gem of South Africa’s financial capital.
Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) reports that Gauteng is home to 28,9% of the nation’s informal businesses, with a large portion based in Johannesburg. “They play an important role in providing a market for the poorer people of the economy, which is important for low-income consumers. A large portion of the economy hasn’t recognised street vendors and informal traders” says Pat Horn, an International Coordinator of StreetNet International.
Inside Joburg’s hidden economy
The quiet struggles for survival that sustain Johannesburg’s world-class status are under-acknowledged. The city’s true economic story is written not only in the boardrooms of Africa’s richest square mile, but in the resilience of its informal workers.
Johannesburg’s informal economy a way of putting food on the table for many, including locals and foreign nationals. The sector acts as a shock absorber to the country’s inequality. According to Stats SA’s Quarterly Labour Force Survey (QLFS) for Quarter 2 of 2024, Gauteng’s unemployment rate remains high, at 32.9%.
“The formal economy cannot create enough jobs for people in South Africa,” says David Francis, a researcher at the University of the Witwatersrand, who is an urban market economist. “People have to subsist in the informal economy, because of the apartheid legacy.”
While the labour of informal workers generates money and provides essential services across the city of Johannesburg, the sector itself is denied credible recognition and protection. “This is where I live, when they chase us away, I’ll come back. I don’t have another plan,” added Huuguamze.
“Research shows a disjoint in the government and the municipality, the quarterly data does not reflect the actual numbers on the ground,” says Francis.
The wealthy north shines with skyscrapers and firms, while the south and townships battle with poverty and unemployment. The so called “City of Gold”, Africa’s powerhouse, depends on the markets, domestic workers, and street vendors from these townships to keep its formal economy running.
The stories stats can’t tell
In the busy streets of Soweto’s Diepkloof, the scorching sun shines down on Huuguamze’s worn-out umbrella. He takes off his jersey and wears a discoloured cap. He immigrated to South Africa in 2008, for “greener pastures”. Renting a small R500 bachelor flat, Soweto has become his home away from home. For three years, a small portion of a shared pavement has become his workplace and lifeline.
Huuguamze turned to selling goods after leaving his contractual jobs, frustrated by months of unpaid wages. “Some contracts pay; some have stories. I see this business as being better,” he says. Now, his stall is his main source of income. With a wife and five children to feed in Mozambique. He works tirelessly to send home about R2,000 every month, and relies on a stokvel to restock and cover rent in tough times. But life as a street vendor is not easy. The weather and law officials are his biggest challenges[LM2] .
He sighs in frustration. “Makuqhamuka iMetro, siyabaleka sonke nje, akunandaba ukuthi uyi South African noma owangaphandle, sonke siyabaleka. [When the Metro police come, we all run, it doesn’t matter if you’re South African, or from outside, we all run.]
With a weary voice, he continues, “…uma unga baleki, bathatha istock sakho, siyabaleka. [If you don’t run, they confiscate your stock, so we run.]
Having a wife and five children still in school is what keeps him motivated.
Despite his challenges, Huuguamze remains at his post everyday, dusk till dawn, determined to make a living and keep his family fed, a symbol of resilience amid the daily struggles of the city’s informal economy.
A different perspective
Across town, Moyo’s day takes a different shape, but the same determination reflects in her job as she sweeps the afternoon away.
As afternoon sun beams catch on the veranda, Moyo sweeps dust onto the grass. Her faded apron clings to her, and she adjusts a worn out headscarf before continuing.
Originally from Zimbabwe, she came to Johannesburg in 2010 after her father passed away. Things at home became hard, and she couldn’t matriculate. As a young woman coming to South Africa, she had dreams of opening her own business one day. “I don’t like working for people, I wanted a decent job, my own business,” she says with her head tilted down and sincere in tone.
With two children, four siblings, and a mother aged 67, her income supports their needs. “Working here supports my family, they can go to school, and I can support them,” she says, with a faint smile.
Moyo sells perfumes as a side hustle, in light of her business ownership dreams. “At least people buy the perfumes I sell, the money helps me a lot,” she says positively.
Although she’s got aspirations, the value of Moyo’s work lies in the support she gives to families. “I help them a lot,” she explains, “because they have the finances but not the energy to clean. I clean the windows, bedrooms and kitchen,” she says with pride.
Yet, even with her dedication and pride, she says job security is never guaranteed. “…akuna security kulo msebenzi” [there’s no security with this job], maybe next year there won’t be funds for me at the job”, she says with a saddened voice.
Despite the challenges faced, Moyo has learnt skills far beyond just cleaning. She learnt organisational skills, multitasking in a fast-paced environment, and to adapt to different homes and personalities. “Kahle kahle ngifunde ukubekezela nokusebenza nabantu,” [I’ve learnt perseverance, and to work with people]she says with humility.
Policy Perspective
While The City of Johannesburg’s Informal Trading Policy recognises informal work as important, the city’s treatment on the ground contradicts this. As Huuguamze mentioned, street vendors are chased on pavements, and a portion of domestic workers lack social security.
“Officials pretend this is a mysterious sector and they often don’t know what to do, but the needs of these workers are inexpensive, necessary and doable,” says Jane Barret, a retired researcher from Woman in Informal Employment Globalizing and Organizing (WIEGO).
This disconnect between policy and practice mirrors a broader trend. According to a Southern Centre for Inequality Studies (SCIS) report, “policies aimed at formalising and regulating informal trade sometimes clash with the realities on the ground, and ambush traders’ aspirations to earn a reliable income.”
Despite official recognition of their contribution, informal traders still face harassment, insecure trading spaces, and limited inclusion in policy-making processes.
Informal trading in Johannesburg is viewed as a “foreign” activity, which overlooks South Africans in this sector and deepens social divisions driven by xenophobia and exclusion. Foreign nationals in this sector experience harsh treatment daily, while trying to navigate the city as more than just workers, but as outsiders in a constantly unwelcoming environment.
According to an article by Nicola Mawson, published on IOL Business, the informal sector contributes up to 6% of the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) in South Africa.
Despite this contribution, law officials continue treating informal workers as a challenge to be managed rather than assisting the economy. “They won’t solve the problem if they get rid of the people who contribute to a large population of the economy,” says Horn.
During the COVID-19 lockdown, the hustle of informal trading kept Johannesburg alive. Street vendors became the heroes of the pandemic when formal work stopped. Today, spaza shops, markets and street traders are responsible for billions of rands, quietly driving Johannesburg’s economy.
This shows that the informal economy drives local spending, which in turn boosts formal businesses and the city’s overall economy.
Shifting from problems to partners
Johannesburg continues to walk a fine line between inclusion and control of informal trading. “They need to acknowledge the informal economy, creating a safe space for trading,” says Francis.
According to critics like Francis and Horn, shifting away from these restrictions would only strengthen the relationship between traders and the government. “Negotiation should be implemented, that means both sides commit themselves to doing things in agreement with the other party,” adds Horn.
Researchers stress that meaningful development depends on involving informal workers as partners in shaping policies, not just as recipients of it. Recognising their contribution would redefine informality to a sign of economic democracy, then exclusion.
Bridging North and South
As Moyo changes out of her apron, and Huugamaze packs his goods away, it’s clear that survival in the informal economy comes with its challenges and uncertainty.
Johannesburg’s true narrative is not solely captured by its skyscrapers, stock exchanges, and formal economy. It’s equally narrated on the playgrounds of street vendors, waste pickers, and inside well-built homes where informal workers work tirelessly.
Individuals like Huuguamze, and Moyo, represent more than mere survival, they are an important part of the formal system, supporting households, communities and the economy at large, even when they have dreams of their own. “I don’t like that I’m a domestic worker, I feel like I’m just too poor, but I don’t have a choice,” says Moyo, her voice betraying a sense of hopelessness.
Despite their efforts, they “bekezela” [persevere]. Against all odds, their persistent resilience reveals the authentic heartbeat of the city of Johannesburg.
Acknowledging and rewarding informal workers as partners on a larger scale would strengthen Johannesburg’s economy and bridge the gap between policy and practice. This is when the city’s “gold” will truly shine, reflecting formal and informal efforts of those who build it from the ground up.
FEATURED IMAGE: Many immigrants in Johannesburg rely on informal or small-scale businesses to earn a living, facing both opportunity and vulnerability in a challenging economic climate. Photo: Sanele Sithetho/File
Would you sacrifice your sleep for a chance at success? In Johannesburg, this is more than just something to think about—it’s something many people live with every single day.
The culture of constant work and hustling wears down people, especially young workers striving to succeed. This leads to chronic anxiety and exhaustion that is often hidden beneath the surface.
Powerful stories of individuals like street vendor Ausi Nandi Nkosi, Uber driver Siya Zwide, and young professional Lerato Kopano* reveal a side of Johannesburg often left unseen.
What looks like strength on the surface often hides a much more vulnerable reality and values mental health, allowing time for rest, and nurturing genuine human connections.
Yet within South Africa’s own imagination, Egoli — the City of Gold — glows differently. The nostalgia of Johannesburg is embedded in the movies we watch, the songs we sing, the stories we tell. Egoli is a city of wealth, success, and luxury; a place where the promise of building something from nothing feels tangible.
The media has long shaped this image. From soap operas like Generations and Isidingo to films like Kedibone, and in headlines celebrating business moguls and breakout stars, Johannesburg is consistently portrayed as a land of opportunity — a city where every main character has a dream and a reason to fight.
Yet the same media also warns of danger: fast money, fast burnout, and an even faster descent. This contradiction forms the city’s pulse: ambition wrapped in fear. You start to walk faster, keep your shoulders tight, say less, and always stay alert. You build a shield around yourself against everything unknown.
Fear captures one part of the experience, but anxiety may be more precise. Anxiety in Johannesburg doesn’t always show up as panic. At times, it hides behind a hectic schedule and nonstop productivity. It’s the feeling of waking up before the sun even rises, pushing yourself to chase a version of success that might no longer feel real or meaningful.
The city that demands your soul
By 5am in the morning, the streets are already congested with minibuses and delivery vans. At the Bree taxi rank, merchants look for a place for their trade early in the morning. The weak sunlight was barely pushing through a haze of exhaust fumes when I met Ausi Nandi Nkosi. She was dressed in a bright doek (headscarf) and a faded Orlando Pirates T-shirt, already frying vetkoek on a makeshift charcoal stove balanced on bricks.
Nkosi, who is nearly 50 years old, has lived through it all. She left her home in rural Mpumalanga back in the 1990s, carrying nothing but a suitcase and hopes of finding a job. “Sometimes I feel like Johannesburg owes me,” she says, leaning on the wall.
Most of Nkosi’s frustration comes from years of patting dough and folding it into small circles to sell for R2 each. This hustle generates a small turnover in profits, which is not enough to raise two orphaned grandchildren in Johannesburg. Diesel fumes hang heavy in the air, filling her lungs with the scent of both sustenance and struggle. She drops the round dough into the sputtering fat. The vetkoek bubbles and turns golden, like little suns.
Nkosi’s sleep is inconsistent, stolen between shifts at the rank as she stands long hours cooking. She describes a pressing heaviness in her muscles. “Joburg never sleeps,” she says with a laugh. According to Mediclinic research this shows what Nkosi describes as being more than exhaustion — it is a risk factor for mental health issues, which includes persistent fatigue and stress on the body. “When people live in environments that demand constant alertness, it affects cognitive function, emotional regulation, and overall resilience,” said Thembelani Nyathi, a regional counsellor.
Humour and warmth are Nkosi’s tools. She jokes around while handing customer’s change. Neglecting one’s body is a mechanism many use to survive in high-stress environments like Johannesburg.
Joburg demands endurance. And every morning, Nkosi delivers.
The Uber Steering Through Fear and Fatigue
Thirty-four-year-old Siyanda Zwide sits in his grey Suzuki Swift at a petrol forecourt in Braamfontein. He wipes sweat off his brow when his phone buzzes with a map notification – my Uber request to head to Wits Junction. The engine hums softly beneath him, but his mind races ahead – the route, the traffic, streets, people. I get into the car, Zwide starts the trip back to residence, navigating the road and answering my questions.
Zwide’s main business is in construction. Now that he works as an Uber driver, he juggles between being the company manager and making his e-hailing trips. “I took the car on instalment in 2017; these cars usually pay for themselves [referring to instalment cars e-hailing drivers take to start their business],” he says.
Zwide complains about the rise in fuel prices as he is receiving low fares on Uber, which consequently makes him struggle to raise the vehicles R8,000 monthly instalment. Zwide is left pressed working two jobs daily, without any breaks. He sacrifices sleep and family time to meet the monthly costs of living.
When asked about the safety of driving in Johannesburg. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and his knuckles whiten. Every stoplight, every junction, every pedestrian trigger calculation. “Drivers get robbed and killed,” he says, “That is why I only drive during the day.”
That vigilance, “always looking over your shoulder,” is a hallmark of chronic anxiety, says Councillor Nyathi. “Chronic anxiety often shows as hypervigilance — constantly scanning your environment, anticipating threats, even small ones. It’s exhausting for the nervous system, and in a city like Joburg, it’s almost a learned survival mechanism.”
There is evident fear threaded through Zwide gestures: the way he checks rearview mirrors twice, the way his hands hover over the steering wheel even when parked, the way he tilts his head at every approaching car. Psychologists call this hyper-vigilance, a symptom of chronic anxiety triggered by repeated exposure to real and perceived threats. In Gauteng e-hailing drivers have been victims of crime on duty and passengers have also been killed or robbed in e-hailing services.
Every pick-up comes with a silent prayer: that you arrive safely, that no one’s aggression finds you, that the city’s hustle doesn’t sweep you into harm. The dashboard light flickers across his face; the road stretches ahead. Deliveries, taxis, pedestrians… Jozi moves with an energy both intoxicating and intimidating. “People outside the city don’t understand,” he says. “Everyone here is scared. We live with the fear and the rush.” It is reflected in the slight tremor of his hands, the exhaled breath only when stopped, the continuous scan of his mirrors. The psychological toll of balancing two jobs with real danger and emotional labour is quiet, almost invisible, yet it breathes in the tension in his back, the rigidity of his shoulders, the measured patience behind his smile could fool you.
When night falls, Johannesburg does not fold into sleep — it rewires. The city’s drive only changes gear: neon signs replace the sun, late deliveries replace early deadlines, and the day’s tension moves into bars, clubs and kitchen tables. The noise softens but the pressure stays. Here, hunger for success takes a different shape: culture, connection, a reclaiming of time that daytime steals.
At the KFC on the corner of De Korte and Biccard, the fryer’s bright red light throws everyone into a small, shared glow. The place smells of salt and oil and spilled cola; the chairs squeak under bodies that have been sitting too long. I run into Lerato Kopano sitting at a corner table. The 21-year-old remote executive assistant exudes confidence, but one that wraps around thinly veiled fatigue. She balances a phone, a bag and a laugh that arrives like a practiced line.
“My life is measured in deadlines, not days,” she says, adjusting the strap of her bag. She jokes about Jozi: “You have to act like you own it.” Her LinkedIn profile is immaculate; her CV rehearsed; her Instagram curated evidence of survival and success. But when she speaks of clients and late-night calls, her fingers drum the table — a small rhythm of counting the time she has left to herself. At one point she scrolls to a photo on her phone, taps it, and reads aloud a quote printed on her wall: “Be the person you need to be.” It is part instruction, part armour.
Around the table the talk is practical — near-misses with rideshares, cruel clients, the tiny humiliations of contract work — and then it softens into something else: confessions, jokes that fold into real, raw sentences. We laugh; someone cries quietly into a napkin. These post-shift gatherings are therapy by improvisation: a circle of witnesses who say, without medical words, you are not crazy; living here is hard. In a city where formal mental-health help is difficult and stigma is stiff; these pockets of honest venting keep people afloat.
Lerato keeps a stack of printed quotes on her wall — Bible verses slipped in by a friend, motivational lines she pins to mornings she needs to meet. “If I’m feeling off, I Google a quote,” she says, almost apologetic. “Sometimes a verse shows up in my chat from a friend and it’s like someone handed me a cup of water.” The ritual is small but steady: words as scaffolding, optimism as habit. This pattern is a constructed persona, the performative quotes, the collective venting sessions is more than being Gen Z. It is a set of coping moves for a city that demands nonstop performance. According to the South African Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG), Joburg ranks among the country’s most stressed cities. Long hours, high unemployment, crime, and cost of living all blur into a perfect storm.
Psychologically, you see this in tiny ways: the rehearsal of confidence (masking), the rapid shifts between humour and seriousness (emotional regulation), the use of mini-rituals —quotations, verses, group venting — to patch up the frayed edges of the day. They’re coping strategies. They’re also indicative of distress when they become the only ways of mending. Sleep gets squeezed in, rumination goes late, and hope is calibrated towards the promotion that comes as the definition of success.
The Mask of Success
We met in Sandton at one of those minimalistic aesthetic cafés, where success seems to show off. The kind of place with comfy velvet chairs and the perfect amount of light, surrounded by people who wear productivity like it’s a signature scent. Monique Gey van Pittius makes her way in five minutes early with a laptop bag slung over her shoulder and phone in hand. She moves with purpose — not hurried. Her gaze remains alert, scanning the room with as if she’s always moving, even when she’s still. Her hair is sleek and her blazer freshly-pressed.
Gey van Pittius is 26-year-old television producer who grew up within the city. Her resume tells a story of rapid progress: assistant, coordinator, senior producer each role arriving faster than the one before, like proof that her climb up the ladder was working. “Joburg gets you where you want to be faster,” she says. “What takes two years in Cape Town? Two months here. Sometimes even two weeks.” She smiles, remembering projects she’s working on — the steady building of a reputation you can see. Those wins mattered. They paid rent, bought security, and opened doors.
But the cracks show in small, sharp moments. When she says, “I had a midlife crisis at twenty-four,” I am amazed at her disarming honesty. It is not just a rhetorical twist. Before she knew it, the career ladder towered before her, the target was far, and her personal life, fortunately not down the drain, but down. She arrived late at important moments, missed weddings. She looked at pictures of friends’ children growing up and suddenly saw that she couldn’t remember being there for their very first steps.
As she stands, she says, “You know what the hardest part is? You can’t even tell when the exhaustion starts to feel normal. It just becomes… you.” Johannesburg rewards velocity. It teaches you that rest is laziness, and stillness is failure. Everyone is sprinting toward a version of stability that keeps moving further away.
Gey van Pittius does not suggest leaving Joburg. She urges people to come and experience the city. “This place will move you,” she says. “It will teach you things you won’t find anywhere else.” But she offers a word of caution. When you come, bring a toolkit with you for example going to therapy even if nothing is wrong. Ambition is important but so is making time to be human. Find a mentor who can guide you and true friendships. And have a plan for recovery in case the fast pace turns into a lifetime sprint.
A quieter verdict
Monique Gey van Pittius thesis [Ed1][Bm2][Bm3] idea is a clever little experiment that tests the values of the city. It involves a simple poll with just one question: Do you love to work, or do you work to love? From the answers, she plans to explore how people define luxury in their lives.
The question she keeps returning to is straightforward, yet powerful. The poll aims to reveal what life feels like when you get to choose your own pace instead of having the city dictate it to you. It’s about understanding the freedom to live on your own terms and what that means to people’s sense of luxury and fulfilment.
For this city to truly become world-class, the way we measure success must change It should not only concern the car you drive or the apartment you live in, or the deals you make. Instead success should be about people’s ability to preserve their health, sustain their relationships, and their mental well-being as they chase their dream.
*Not their real name
FEATURED IMAGE: An Uber vehicle waiting for a pickup near the Wits Arts Museum. Photo: File
Behind Johannesburg’s title as a world-class African city lies Wits and UJ transforming the city into Africa’s intellectual powerhouse.
Every lab, start-up and innovation hub is part of Johannesburg’s knowledge.
Together, the University of the Witwatersrand (Wits)and the University of Johannesburg(UJ) represent both prestige and purpose. One drives global excellence, the other ensures progress is inclusive and grounded in local realities.
University expertise is embedded in municipal development, bridging knowledge with real-world governance.
As “Joburgers” would say in Setswana: “Joburg ke country,” meaning Johannesburg is a country. A city that feels like a nation itself, whose name echoes with the roar of commerce. For over a century, its identity has been forged in the deep-level gold mines beneath its tall buildings. It is South Africa’s economic and commercial epicentre, a city built on tangible assets. But the gold of the 21st century isn’t dug from the ground, it is cultivated in lecture halls, coded in digital hubs and debated in policy forums. Today, Johannesburg’s claim as a world-class African city is redefined not only by its physical infrastructure, but by a formidable concentration of intellectual capital.
Image of Wits University standing tall in Jorissen Street. Photo: Abena Mahlahlane
Walking through Braamfontein, the heartbeat of Johannesburg feels close to the surface. The streets are alive with the sound of taxis hooting, car guards filling the area at parking lots, and groups of students in Wits hoodies spilling onto Jorissen Street, cracking jokes and bursting into laughter. Wits University is at the centre of it all, its sandstone buildings rising between the city’s noise and ambition[Ed1] .
Barely five kilometres from inner-city Braamfontein away is the suburb of Auckland Park, where the University of Johannesburg (UJ) beats with its own rhythm. The atmosphere shifts from inner-city street buzz to a campus alive with experimentation. Young innovators huddle as they test prototypes and plan start-ups.
More than just neighbours, the universities are the twin engines of a thriving knowledge economy, providing a growing density of research, innovation and talent. Their combined influence transforms the city into a knowledge economy, where ideas are currency, and innovation is the infrastructure.
Pillars of a knowledge city
Unlike some African cities which dominated by a single major university, Wits and UJ complement each other rather than compete. While Wits University delivers globally benchmarked research, UJ leads in socially embedded innovation. This unique dynamic is validated by the world’s most respected university ranking systems.
Wits University is ranked number 267 in the world, and second in Africa, according to the 2025 QS World University Rankings. Long celebrated for its groundbreaking research, and alumni who’ve shaped South Africa’s story, Wits continues to hold its own among the world’s best.
“From my point of view, rankings are important because institutions want to do well, it is what people see first. We participate in rankings where research is a major component, because that is the hallmark of a good university,” said Wits Deputy Vice-Chancellor, Professor Lynn Morris.
Together, Wits and UJ form the intellectual backbone of Johannesburg. Universities whose ideas don’t stay trapped in ivory towers but spill into the city streets, innovation hubs and communities.
The deep science engine: Wits
Founded in 1922, Wits University is Johannesburg’s oldest and arguably most prestigious university. A beacon of deep research and frontier science. With over 380 NRF-rated researchers, its labs have birthed discoveries from mining engineering to quantum computing.
Wits Quantum Initiative, the first of its kind in Africa, positions the university at the cutting edge of subatomic physics and computational research. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Wits scientists collaborated across disciplines, from epidemiology to data analytics, demonstrating the university’s capacity for rapid, high-impact innovation.
Under its Wits 2033 strategic plan, the university aims to cement its identity as a research-intensive, globally engaged African leader. The plan envisions Wits as a bridge between Global South and North, a hub for scientific collaboration that also speaks to local realities.
Innovation with social purpose: UJ
While Wits chases the stars of scientific prestige, the University of Johannesburg grounds innovation in human impact. UJ’s philosophy is clear: research must solve problems.
Its Strategic Plan 2035, “Reimagining the Future. Realising Possibility” aligns the university’s goals with the UN’s Sustainable Development Agenda. The result is an institution where inclusivity and integrity are baked into the research DNA. With research productivity of 2.35 accredited output units per scholar (double the national average). UJ turns efficiency into impact.
This academic prowess is not confined to campus grounds. Both universities have built powerful, dedicated innovation hubs that act as direct channels for executing economic and social policy, turning abstract knowledge into jobs, businesses and solutions.
Wits and the digital heartbeat of the inner city
Built on the site of a former print works, Tshimologong Digital Innovation Precinct buzzes with coders, designers and start-ups. It’s not just a space, it’s a policy instrument, part of Johannesburg’s broader urban regeneration strategy. With its name meaning “new beginnings” in Setswana, the precinct operates on three pillars: Digital Skills Development, Incubation & Acceleration, and Market Access. Tshimologong is Wits’s engine for commercializing digital innovation.
I visited the precinct late one afternoon and was immediately greeted by a cheerful administrator, who called for executive assistant Kgaugelo Modiba to assist me. “Don’t be nervous,” Modiba reassured me, as I prepared to interview the initiative’s CEO Mark Harris.
A few people sat nearby in the café area, eyes hooked on laptops, making the most of the precinct’s quiet hum and free Wi-Fi. It was exactly how Prof. Morris described it, “you should visit the precinct, it is a rather refreshing space where everyone is welcome. You can grab coffee and enjoy perks of free Wi-Fi.”
Kgaugelo led me down a corridor into a boardroom flooded with natural light. Tshimologong CEO Mark Harris greeted me with a glass of water and an easy smile. It seems conversations for the people at the precinct come easily. “So what kind of journalist are you going to be? The good kind or the bad one,” Harris laughed.
I asked Harris why Tshimologong had been placed in the heart of Braamfontein, and his answer echoed the vision of the late Professor Barry Dwolatzky (founder of Tshimologong), which was that young people hold the creativity, energy and reason to build a new South Africa. Braamfontein was chosen because its streets are alive with students and young creators.
“The vision was to spot people like yourself who are educated and ambitious, create space for them to become entrepreneurs,” said Harris.
The precinct was never meant to sit safely inside the university walls, but to stand open to all youth, educated, self-taught and anyone with the will to innovate and build.
Tshimologong’s Digital Skills Academy is a crucial accelerator, taking high-potential youth and equipping them with job-ready skills in Artificial Intelligence, Machine Learning and the Internet of Things; the core competencies of the Fourth Industrial Revolution (4IR).
This isn’t just for the sake of training, the precinct works with corporate partners on Enterprise Supplier Development (ESD) programs. These aim to secure employment through its network, creating a direct pipeline from the classrooms to the economy.
“From what I’ve seen of the youngsters who come here, these are people who want to make an impact. Our trainers are just as committed, they are determined to empower future entrepreneurs. The youth are showing up positively, they are hungry for change, and they want to help South Africa grow. We often hear the negative stories about crime and violence, but I refuse to only see that side. There is so much potential here, and I believe in them,” said Harris.
As the discussion continued to unfold, it moved beyond Braamfontein’s physical space to the culture it nurtures. Harris’s belief in the potential of young people seem to find its proof just outside the boardroom walls.
This spirit is best captured by the Fak’ugesi African Digital Innovation Festival, hosted at Tshimologong every year. This festival turns Braamfontein into a pulsing circuit of creativity. The 2025 edition, themed #PowerSurge, called on Africa’s digital creators to “take control on the grid”, blending ancestral intelligence with artificial intelligence.
The Fak’ugesi festival turns Braamfontein into a living circuit of art, technology and collaboration, celebrating Africa’s creative power in the digital age. Photo: Abena Mahlahlane
Walking through the entrance felt like stepping into an animated scene. Walls alive with colour, music weaving between exhibition stands and a soft buzz of conversation rising from every corner. A row of Virtual Reality headsets lined one side of the room, where groups of young people tested immersive worlds. Up the staircase were two small rooms that had been turned into gaming rooms, complete with PS5 and Xbox consoles that drew clusters of gamers competing in friendly matches.
Panels of speakers shared stories of small start-up creators and local digital enterprises. Every corner felt like a classroom and playground combined, a space where learning, creativity and collaboration merged.
“When I curated #PowerSurge I looked at what is currently happening in the African digital continent, we saw last year in 2024, about 65 billion Rands worth of investments that went into start-up, technology and creative sectors,” said the director of Fak’ugesi festival, Alby Michaels. “This year we wanted to showcase what is next in the African continent. We have been creating this beautiful content for our creators for years, but I think now it was all about owning up agencies, standing together and moving forward with purpose.”
Through such initiatives, Johannesburg asserts itself not merely as a consumer of global tech, but as a producer of digital culture and creativity, solidifying its reputation as a continental innovation capital.
“Creators are doing amazing stuff, we are not just consumers of the digital space we are actually critics of those spaces,” said Michaels.
Ideas move faster than light, a panel of artists, technologists and innovators reimagining what it means to create in the digital age. Photo: Abena Mahlahlane
CALSTEAM: UJ’s Future-of-Learning Lab
UJ’s Centre for Advanced Learning Technologies in Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts and Mathematics (CALSTEAM) redefines how the next generation learns.
Instead of chalk and paper, lessons unfold through virtual and augmented reality (VR/AR), tools designed to make abstract science visible and alive. “VR allows students to step inside the science,” explained Professor Mafor Penn, who leads research at the centre. “Concepts like molecules, cells and sound waves suddenly become visible, something you can interact with rather than just imagine.”
Concepts like molecules, cells and sound waves suddenly become visible, something you can interact with rather than just imagine.
CALSTEAM evolved from UJ’s former VARSTEME hub, broadening its focus to include the arts and entrepreneurship. Its mission is not only to enhance teaching but to cultivate educators who are also innovators. Teachers who can create, adapt and apply technology to suit local contexts.
For many South African schools where resources remain scarce, CALSTEAM is deliberate about accessibility. Many of its tools are designed for affordability, ensuring that immersive learning is not limited to well-resourced schools. “We don’t want to widen the gap between those who have and those who don’t,” said Penn. “That’s why we work with scalable, low-cost technologies that can be used anywhere, even in under-resourced classrooms.”
The centre’s pioneering project, Culturally Anchored Virtual and Augmented Reality Simulations (CAVARS), takes this philosophy further by merging indigenous knowledge systems with science education. In one simulation, African drumming demonstrates sound waves, turning cultural practice into scientific inquiry. “Science should never feel foreign,” Penn added. “When learners see their heritage reflected in what they study, it becomes meaningful and memorable.”
Through coding clubs, immersive learning workshops, and postgraduate programmes in Educational Technology, CALSTEAM envisions a future where learning is not confined to textbooks but expands into virtual space, interactive, inclusive, and distinctly African.
Hardwiring Academia into the city’s DNA
Gauteng City-Region Observatory (GCRO) offices at Wits. Photo: Abena Mahlahlane
A true world-class city does not just produce knowledge, it governs through it. The Gauteng City-Region Observatory (GCRO) is the institutional glue that connects Wits, UJ and the Gauteng Provincial Government. This is not a case of academia simply advising from the sidelines, it is a deep, structural partnership.
“The GCRO is an important research unit that provides data to the provincial government to help them understand and know where to place their resources, to know what interventions to look at, plan and think about the health of the city. “Wits and UJ also plays part and contribute to providing evidence and the data needed”, said Prof. Morris.
Binding the partnership together is the Quality of Life Survey, a mirror reflecting how Johannesburg’s residents navigate the promises and pressures of city life. From employment and housing to public transport and social cohesion. The survey provides policymakers and researchers with a shared lens on how people actually experience the city. “Our work has to have both the rigorous foundation and approach of academics, but be structured in a way that could be useful to policy makers. So, questions are tailored to what problems we see in Johannesburg region and how they could be academically rigorous to answering those questions,” said GCRO researcher, Jason Bell. “Wits and UJ are historic centres of debate, discussion, knowledge generation. They play an active role in the ecosystem of policy identification.”
The road ahead
Both institutions have formalized their future through long-term strategies, Wits 2033 and UJ 2035, each mapping a decade of sustained excellence.
Wits aims to strengthen its position as the leading research university in the Global South, while UJ envisions itself as the model of inclusive innovation. Their combined trajectories ensure that Johannesburg’s intellectual ecosystem remains globally competitive and locally transformative. If executed, these roadmaps could make Johannesburg the continental capital of knowledge innovation, leading Africa into the Fourth Industrial Revolution (4IR).
“People want to see more than just the research, they want to see that the research is actually deployed. Whether it is a new of doing things, a new product or a new device, something tangible, an improved process,” said Morris.
The city that thinks
In small, ordinary moments, a lecture’s spark, a student’s first breakthrough, a start-up’s first pitch, Johannesburg’s new gold is being mined.
Through innovation hubs that drive economic growth and educational equity, and a unique governance model that embeds their expertise into the very fabric of the city, these two universities are doing more than just educating students. They are actively building a more resilient, prosperous, and innovative Johannesburg—a true world-class African city for the 21st century.
FEATURED IMAGE: A collage of Johannesburg’s academic icons, representing the city’s transformation into a world-class hub of knowledge. Photo: Abena Mahlahlane
Joburg is a world-class city in the way that it reconciles global modernity with deeply rooted indigenous spirituality, a dichotomy for professionals in corporate South Africa.
Joburg displays its status as a world-class African city through its diversity and multiculturalism.
Company policies are shifting to accommodate employees that need leave to undergo initiation.
Corporate spaces embracing employees who are professionals and African spiritual healers.
Joburg is a city often judged by its robust GDP, financial technology adoption and its relentless, dynamic pace. However, what also defines the city of Joburg’s status as a world-class African city is its profound and often overlooked multiculturalism and diversity – one of these being how the corporate environment is opening itself up for the integration of modern careers with ancestral practices. This is where corporate employees are able to embrace their dual identities of being both professionals in the workplace, and called healers at the same time.
Beaded necklaces that form part of a healer and corporate professional’s dress-code. Photo by Zanele S. Maduma
These are often the most visible signs of a profound duality, often resting around the subtle yet powerful fusion of corporate and astral uniforms. For many practitioners, traditional beads, bangles and even sacred ancestral cloths are not abandoned, they are carefully woven into the daily attire of the office, creating a new and authentic form of African corporate dress.
This deliberate visibility reached a world stage when Amanda Gcabashe, an accomplished executive with a background in accounting and auditing, delivered her TedTalk presentation at the TEDxJohannesburg stage, in Johannesburg. Gcabashe is an African Traditional Medicine Practitioner (isangoma/inyanga) and, as Chair at the South African Bureau of Standards (SABS), is responsible for developing concepts and managing and implementing projects aimed at industrial development of the African Traditional Medicine (ATM) sector in South Africa.
For her TedTalk, Gcabashe was not dressed in a conventional power suit as often seen in such a global forum. Appearing from the shadows of backstage, Gcabashe walked on stage barefoot, but with a commanding and authoritative energy. She carried ithusi (a wooden staff) which she gently placed on a chair. The wooden staff (ithusi) is sometimes wrapped around with colourful beads. In a spiritual context, it is used for protection and believed to possess certain powers. Fully adorned in her African traditional healer’s attire, Gcabeshe used her visibility to embed ancestral wisdom directly into the modern conversation about her journey of this “parallel universe” as she calls it. Her presence affirmed that in Johannesburg, the traditional and the corporate are not just compatible but that they are a source of professional authority worth recognition and respect.
Sharp contrasts and conflicts
The tension between being a corporate professional and a traditional healer arise in the dismantling of the life that practitioners have built and are then forced to rebuild on two foundations. The integration of ancestral practices with modern careers, shows that traditions and ambition can coexist, sparking challenges to and questions about how success is defined or redefined.
Mkhulu Mahlal’entabeni, whose birthname is Keabetswe Kaka, is an initiated spiritual healer who is also a broadcast media technology engineer in one of the largest media companies in South Africa. He shares the journey of his spiritual awakening with both dismay and acceptance.
Kaka began his journey of ukuthwasa (initiation) after he had graduated from university and entered into the work space – which he left for a time, only for him to come back at a later stage. He remembers the early days of his awakening to his calling as having begun with dreams about snakes and, at times, seeing his grandmother who had passed on. He completed his initiation after 18 months of training and describes his journey as anything but easy.
“I am proud of my dual identity. Am I embracing it? Is it easy to handle and manage? Not at all. That is one thing I can definitely say I struggle with when it comes to my dual identity, this dichotomy”, says Kaka. “Everything you’ve ever known and ever understood, you now have to question”, he adds.
The initial attempt to reconcile these two demanding worlds is often defined by an exhausting, almost schizophrenic level of code-switching. Added to this is mastering the art of living in Johannesburg, navigating its fast pace and lack of natural environment which typically forms an integral part of a healer’s life and journey. It is an act of extreme mental and emotional endurance.
Info Box
When traditional healers (some, not all) burp, it symbolises the presence of the spirit or their ancestors. It can happen at any time, regardless of location or time. It is one of the signs that the ancestors are omnipresent and work to convey messages through traditional healers and other gifted people.
Zanele Zwane (36), whose ancestral name is Gogo Manziniwasentabeni (meaning one who heals through prayer and the use of water) is a practicing healer and a film and television professional. She fans herself with an ancestral cloth wrapped around her shoulders, and punctuates the conversation with soft burps [see info box above]. In the film and television industry, Zwane meets her difficulty of this duality with a sense of acceptance. “My understanding is that your ancestors never push you to a point where you literally cannot do both your professional and healing work,” she adds.
An awakening amid a scene on a shoot
Johannesburg’s global standing is predicated on its resilience and its complex cultural layering. The city’s inherent dynamism has created space for synthesis. This is a critical distinction as it shows not just tolerance but a sophisticated and working model of layered identity and diversity.
While Zwane and her production crew were shooting a scene in the bushes, African traditional props had to be used to recreate a real and natural-looking set – the crew brought in impepho, an African herb also known as sage, and a real goat’s head which had been purchased from a nearby butchery.
Bundles of impepho stack at Faraday market down town Joburg, fueling ancestral connections in a global city. Photo: Zanele S. Maduma
Once they put the goat’s head down, and lit up the impepho, that was it for Zwane. As the sacred smoke of impepho mingled with the sharp, metallic scent of blood from the goat’s severed head, a profound shift stirred within her. This potent scene, the goat’s head with its visceral residue and the smoke curling up in the air from the impepho creating a thick scent, translated into umgidi for her lineage. Umgidi a sacred observance performed for summoning the spirit of the elders to offer and share with one’s offering.
“That caused a ball of fire for me, because once you light up impepho, it summons the spirits” Zwane explains. “I fell down and the trance that takes over is as though you are out of your human body.”
Production had to pause. This resulted to extended shooting hours as the crew had to stop and check on her if she was ok, proceeding to give her time to recollect herself before continuing with production.
The complexity of the duality
Joburg has always been a space of high-density cultural exchange. The difference today is that this exchange is no longer confined to the townships or the informal sector, it has moved into the boardroom.
The traditional healer who is also an executive proves that African spirituality is not merely a relic to be studied, but a living knowledge system that is both relevant and powerful in navigating the pressures of the 21st century economy. The dual-identity individual is a highly sophisticated code-switcher.
This complexity is the key to African innovation. It signifies an intellectual and spiritual freedom that positions it as a genuine leader of Afro-modern thought. The quiet, almost subversive resilience of these dual-identity professionals provides the most compelling evidence for Johannesburg’s world-class status. They are the architects of a new authenticity, proving that a major global city can be powered by both algorithms and ancestry. The true architecture of Johannesburg is not its glass towers but its deep, layered character, revealed in the lives of those who sustain its dynamism through their authenticity.
Shifting company policies and the Traditional Health Professions Council
In South Africa, state-owned companies such as Transnet and local government structures like the City of Tshwane have implemented spiritual or initiation leave. This leave refers to extended absence by employees for the purpose of undergoing ukuthwasa. It falls under broader protections for cultural, religious, and traditional beliefs, as enshrined in Section 15 of the Constitution (freedom of religion, belief, and opinion) and the Employment Equity Act (EEA), which prohibits unfair discrimination based on culture or belief.
Signposts pointing to key Sandton landmarks guiding Joburg’s workers and visitors to Sandton’s heart, where healers navigate both boardrooms and their callings. Photo: Zanele S. Maduma
Merriam Leuuw, whose ancestral name is Mmamorena, a Masters student at Wits University, received support from her employer at the time when she was granted leave for those days that she went through her initiation.
“They were very accommodating, because the space I was in, in Free State, is more appreciative or understanding of people who are spiritually gifted”, says Leuuw, who was working for community radio station Motheo FM in the province at the time that she began her initiation.
In April 2025, the SABC reported that the City of Tshwane had adopted a policy granting its employees special leave for ukuthwasa. This move marked a shift toward recognising African spirituality in the workplace.
However, one of the primary challenges emerging in recognizing the needs for professionals with a spiritual calling is that ukuthwasa is an open-ended practice. This means that the initiation process is continuous and sometimes can extend over a longer period.
When Kaka went on his initiation journey, he did not want to disclose this at work as he did not want to complicate or ruin his job.
Kaka says, “I only opened up about me being in initiation when my job and initiation process was starting to conflict. I work in the technical space so we work shifts and odd hours at times. Instead of talking to HR, I went to my direct manager and explained what was going on with me. I never really got to involve HR, although my journey did impact my work performance and as we speak, I am going through work performance improvement,” adds Kaka. In a separate interview with the SABC, African Spiritual Advisor Siyabonga Mkhize of Umsamo Institute, noted that because of the open-endedness of the initiating process, perhaps companies need to draft policies that balance out the spiritual needs of the employees without compromising the operations of the employer. The Steel and Engineering Industries Federation of Southern Africa (SEIFSA), a federation representing employers in the metal and engineering industries in South Africa, points out, for example, many organisations are still grappling with finding working solutions pertaining to extended leave days for initiation.
Traditional Health Professions Council
In January 2008, the South African government gazetted The Traditional Health Practitioners Act, 2007, to recognise traditional health practitioners and to regulate, train and legitimize their issuing of sick notes upon registering as professional healers.
A post on X (formerly known as Twitter) sparked an engagement on the social media platform when a user displayed bewilderment at the fact that employees are now able to submit sick notes from their traditional healers. One user dropped a bombshell into this conversation, giving an account of how an employee was fired for submitting such a note – and had gone on to win their case before the Commission for Conciliation and Mediation and Arbitration (CCMA), proving its legal weight.
This online flurry mirrors Johannesburg’s own dance of duality, where corporate professionals and African traditional practitioners navigate a landscape that’s both perplexing and progressively inclusive. The city’s formal systems are bending to accommodate the African self. Such transitions and innovations further prove that Joburg is progressive in its multiculturalism, evidently putting it forward as a world-class African city, innovating amid its medley of challenges.
https://youtu.be/WoIRAqRYjdE
Featured Image: Skyscraper glass facade rise in Sandton, Joburg. Photo: Zanele S. Maduma
True world-class status depends not just on infrastructure, but on equitable access and resilience for all residents. Johannesburg’s water crisis exposes this gap, as affluent areas enjoy reliable supply while many townships face frequent outages.
Johannesburg’s reputation as a “world-class African city” is under pressure as residents continue to face severe water shortages and broken infrastructure.
In areas like Alexandra, dry taps, burst pipes, and overflowing sewage reveal deep failures in basic service delivery.
The ongoing water crisis exposes how far the city still is from achieving the standards it claims where access to something as simple as water remains uncertain.
Refuse spills from torn plastic bags, burst pipes and overflow water in Alexandra township Picture: Lindelwa Khanyile
The smell hits first. Rotting refuse spills from torn plastic bags beside a cracked pavement in Alexandra, Johannesburg’s oldest township. Dirty bins overflow under the heat, attracting flies that circle lazily before landing on empty plastic bottles and wilting cabbage leaves. A group of boys sit nearby, passing around a joint and talking loudly.
Men stand on corners, bayashela (courting) whistling softly and calling out to passing girls with easy charm. “Eh, sisi, ungahambi kanjalo, uyangichaza!” (Eh sister when you walk like that, I get smitten) one shouts, and laughter spills across the road. Children chase each other through puddles formed by a burst pipe, their feet slapping against the mud and tar. They play freely, unaware that the water soaking their shoes is both a luxury and a warning.
As we walk deeper into the area, my classmate Nomfundo and I hold hands, not out of affection, but instinct. The atmosphere does not scream free or safe. Every corner feels like it is watching you. The streets buzz with music from taxis, the smell of fried chips and oil thick in the air. After circling the area, we buy a kota from a spaza near the corner: polony, cheese, atchar, and a slice of russian squeezed into white bread. We sit on an upturned crate, eating quietly, just taking it all in. Around us, life continues children play, someone fixes a tire, another washes cars with buckets of stored water.
This is not the Johannesburg of brochures and billboards. This is the other side of the city – the one that exposes how the rhetoric of world-class collapses under the weight of broken pipes, empty taps, and forgotten promises.
A city divided by class
The City of Johannesburg brands itself as a “World-Class African City,” a phrase meant to signal progress, innovation, and global competitiveness. But what does that mean in a city where water, the most basic human right, cannot be guaranteed?
To call Johannesburg world-class suggests it meets the standards of sustainable urban governance, equitable service delivery, and modern infrastructure. Yet, the ongoing water crisis reveals a more complicated truth. In practice, the city’s ambitions are deeply disconnected from the lived realities of millions who call its informal settlements and townships home. The contrast between vision and reality makes Johannesburg not a world-class African city, but a divided one.
“Water is an essential urban service in any context,” says Mike Muller, Adjunct Professor of Water, Governance, and Climate Change at Wits University. He explains that Johannesburg’s regional water schemes particularly the Integrated Vaal River System are technically advanced and, in theory, sufficient.
“If water use is properly managed and infrastructure built when scheduled, water availability should not be a constraint,” he says. The issue, therefore, is not scarcity but management. Muller warns that the municipal governance of water in Johannesburg “shares many of the weaknesses of other unequal, middle-income countries.” In other words: the pipes are world-class, but the politics are not.
When planning fails
According to water and sanitation utility Johannesburg Water, the city’s supply chain depends on a multi-layered system. The Department of Water and Sanitation (DWS) allocates water from the Vaal Dam to bulk water utility company Rand Water, which purifies it before selling it to Johannesburg Water the municipal entity responsible for distribution.
But cracks have long been appearing in this system. A combination of aging infrastructure, delayed projects, and population growth has placed unbearable pressure on supply. Gauteng’s population grew from 12 million in 2010 to over 15 million in 2023, yet the region’s water infrastructure hasn’t kept pace.
The Lesotho Highlands Water Project, designed to increase Johannesburg’s water capacity, has been delayed until 2028 precisely during a period when demand has surged. That delay, as experts warn, has “cost the city its water sovereignty.”
Flowing from the wealth of Sandton into the overcrowded streets of Alexandra, the Jukskei river, [Ed1][LK2] which flows north to the Crocodile River eventually reaching the Hartbeespoort Dam, is a constant carrier of waste, choked with sewage, plastics, and chemical run-off. For years, residents have lived with the stench and the danger, while city officials promise solutions that rarely last. Clean-up drives by community groups like the Alexandra Water Warriors and initiatives such as SUNCAS “Turning Trash into Treasures” project show courage and commitment, but they are temporary fixes in a system built on inequality.
Each time there’s an attempt at cleaning the river, it fills with waste again a reminder that the problem is deeper than pollution, it’s about neglect, broken infrastructure, and the uneven delivery of public services. If Johannesburg is to be a truly world-class African city, its greatness must flow through every street, every tap, and every river not just the ones near its wealthy centres.
The Lesotho Highlands Water Project, designed to increase Johannesburg’s water capacity, has been delayed until 2028 precisely during a period when demand has surged. That delay, as experts warn, has “cost the city its water sovereignty.”
Flowing from the wealth of Sandton into the overcrowded streets of Alexandra, the Jukskei river is no longer a source of life, but a carrier of waste choked with sewage, plastics, and chemical run-off. For years, residents have lived with the stench and the danger, while city officials promise solutions that rarely last. Clean-up drives by community groups like the Alexandra Water Warriors and initiatives such as SUNCAS Turning Trash into Treasures” project show courage and commitment, but they are temporary fixes in a system built on inequality.
Each time the river is cleared, it fills with waste again a reminder that the problem is deeper than pollution, it’s about neglect, broken infrastructure, and the uneven delivery of public services. If Johannesburg is to be a truly world-class African city, its greatness must flow through every street, every tap, and every river not just the ones near its wealthy centres.
A “scarily predictable” boiling point
By September 2025, Johannesburg’s water crisis reached what the Daily Maverick called a “scarily predictable” breaking point. Protests erupted across Alexandra, Soweto, and parts of the West Rand. Tyres burned, and police fired rubber bullets as residents demanded answers and water.
The South African Institute of International Affairs (SAIIA) observed that the crisis reveals the state’s failure to deliver on socio-economic rights enshrined in the Constitution. Chapter 2 of the South African Constitution guarantees that “everyone has the right to have access to sufficient food and water.” Yet, in practice, this right depends on where you live.
The residents’ reality
For small business owners like Fanas Monaise, who runs a car wash in Alexandra, water scarcity is not just an inconvenience, it’s economic ruin. “Yoh, my sister, I started this business last year,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “When there is no water, I cannot wash cars, I can’t earn. Sometimes I lose so much I can’t even buy food, never mind take my girl out.”
Nearby, Thabo Maseko, a frustrated resident, points toward a municipal water truck. “We wait for that thing like it’s a miracle, neh?” he says. “They say we must pay for water, but what are we paying for? In Sandton, they never close the taps[Ed1] . Here, they treat us like we don’t count.”
In recent months, even areas like Sandton and its surrounding suburbs have faced water outages and supply cuts, though never as prolonged or severe as those in Alexandra. Yet the moment the shortages began affecting affluent neighbourhoods, public concern and political urgency suddenly intensified. For many residents in Alex, this contrast is a painful reminder that Johannesburg’s response to crisis still depends on who is suffering, and where.
When a camera appears, veyes follow it closely. “Eish, how much is that camera, sisi?” Thabo shouts, half-joking, half-threatening. Another adds, “Haai, wena, careful these phara’s (thieves) will steal it fast- fast!” The tone is mixed curiosity laced with warning, the street talk of survival. For many in Alex, visibility means vulnerability as their stories are captured, but their suffering ignored.
Governance and the politics of water
According to Sipho Mthembu, former board chair of Johannesburg Water, three key issues plague the system: infrastructure decay, non-revenue water, and illegal connections.
“People don’t want to pay for water,” he admits, “but the city also shuts off water when they can’t pay. It’s a vicious cycle.” The city loses up to 40% of its water to leaks and theft, losses that could otherwise serve entire communities.
A dry tap, Ntokozo (In picture) walks back in disappointment with an empty black bucket Picture: Lindelwa Khanyile
According to Sipho Mthembu, former board chair of Johannesburg Water, three key issues plague the system: infrastructure decay, non-revenue water, and illegal connections.
“People don’t want to pay for water,” he admits, “but the city also shuts off water when they can’t pay. It’s a vicious cycle.” The city loses up to 40% of its water to leaks and theft, losses that could otherwise serve entire communities.
This is not merely a technical problem, it is political. Years of underinvestment, corruption, and bureaucratic mismanagement have hollowed out municipal institutions. Each administration blames the last, but residents continue to suffer. According to Business Tech, the management of Johannesburg’s water crisis has come under scrutiny, particularly about the city’s ability to restore supply promptly. Reports show that earlier promises to resolve outages quickly were not met, and delays in maintenance, partly linked to R4-billion being removed from Joburg Water’s budget, have contributed to the problem
As Prof. Ian Jandrell, Wits Deputy Vice-Chancellor for Systems and Operations, notes, “It’s fair to say we are facing a crisis in terms of water and service delivery in general. Without a doubt, this is a serious situation.”
The crisis, Jandrell argues, reveals a fundamental flaw in Johannesburg’s governance mode, it aspires to be globally competitive before ensuring basic local functionality.
Bridging Academia and Action
Projects like Wits Water (recently relaunched as Wits:H20), led by Professor Craig Sheridan, attempt to address this. “We want to think as a society about the water challenges we face,” he says. “How do we keep water in our pipes? How do we ensure there’s water not just in Joburg but in Gauteng as a whole”.
“South Africa is currently grappling with a substantial skills shortage in the water sector,” says Sheridan. “Years of limited investment in training and capacity development have resulted in too few qualified engineers, hydrologists, water managers, and sanitation specialists. Wits: H₂O seeks not only to advance research but also to rebuild this critical skills base, while training and mentoring the next generation of professionals who will tackle the growing water challenges facing our country and continent.”
Andrew Hope-Jones, CEO of Wits Enterprise, adds: “By connecting Johannesburg Water with the university’s research expertise, we ensure that innovation developed in the lab can be translated into practical solutions.” These collaborations aim to transform research into action to “bring water, dignity, and development to the people of Johannesburg.” Yet, the gap between promise and practice remains wide. While academia theorizes sustainability, residents rely on buckets and tankers.
Johannesburg’s crisis is further compounded by climate variability. Changing rainfall patterns and longer dry spells mean that even advanced systems face strain. But, as Muller insists, if infrastructure is built on time and water use managed properly, climate change alone would not cripple the system.
That Johannesburg still struggles shows a deeper structural inequality. Climate impacts don’t create injustice they expose it. The same storms that fill suburban swimming pools flood township shacks.
The Mirage in the Tap
On paper, the city boasts sophisticated regional water systems and ambitious development plans. Yet, across townships and informal settlements, access to water remains inconsistent and unreliable. This gap raises a critical question: can a city truly be considered world-class when its basic services are not universally secured?
Water flows reliably in affluent areas, yet many residents in disadvantaged neighborhoods face frequent outages and limited access. This disparity demonstrates that true world-class status depends on both infrastructure and equitable, resilient service for all.
Earlier in the day, the water truck had arrived in Alexandra. Residents hurried out with buckets and bottles, calling to one another as they tried to collect what they could before the tank ran dry. For a short while, there is r[PS1] elief and laughter, movement, the sound of water hitting the bucket. But by dusk, the truck was gone, and the taps were still empty. The wait has begun again. In the fading light, Sandton’s skyline glows in the distance a shimmering mirage of wealth and modernity. Yet that glow means nothing to those who sleep beside dry taps and overflowing bins.
FEATURE ARTICLE: Protesters outside Johannesburg Council Chambers, photo by:Lindelwa Khanyile
The city’s digital creatives are redefining what it means to live and work in a ‘world-class African city’.
Johannesburg exists in two places at once. There is the Johannesburg you can touch, smell, feel, and hear, with its jacaranda-lined streets, exploding roads, screams of traffic, glitzy high-rises, and pungent smell.
And then there is the other Johannesburg; the one you’re taking for granted. The one that pulses through fibre cables and 4G signals, the one that lives in Instagram grids and Google Drive folders, in DMs and collaborative Canva boards. The one that causes jumpy thumbs to double tap and fingers to type three flame emojis after a post.
This is the sophisticated and highly functional digital city built not of concrete and steel, but from code, bandwidth, and human collaboration. This is the digital creative economy.
Sitting in multiple digital meeting rooms – not physical ones, because even the concept of gathering has evolved – I encounter creatives who show the slogan still holds true. Not despite Johannesburg’s dysfunction, but because of what has emerged from it.
The mythology and the reality
Johannesburg earned its world-class aspirations honestly. Founded on the world’s largest gold deposits in 1886, it became Africa’s financial heartland, contributing 17% to South Africa’s GDP. Former Reserve Bank Governor Tito Mboweli once declared it a place where “phones dial, the lights switch on, you can drink our water,” services that would seem mundane elsewhere, but which distinguished Johannesburg as exceptional in Africa.
That distinction is disintegrating. Between July 2024 and March 2025, the city reported 97,715 power outages. Johannesburg Water’s aging infrastructure requires R1,09-billion annually just for pipe replacements, funds the cash-strapped municipality cannot provide. The city faces potential bankruptcy, having written off R13-billion in irregular and wasteful expenditure. City Power is owed R10-billion by residents and businesses who have lost faith in paying for services that barely function.
Political analyst Goodenough Mashego’s assessment is blunt.
Johannesburg arrived where it is because of mismanagement, the lack of political will to fix it and because the people who have been running it have had this vision that they can leave
The Centre for Development and Enterprise concluded years ago that Johannesburg is a “slipping world city,” at risk of falling off the global map entirely.
Yet, in this landscape of decay, something unexpected is flourishing.
What is the ‘digital creative economy‘?
“It’s anywhere where there’s an ecosystem of various kinds of practitioners in the realms of entertainment, design, fashion, musicians, fine art, artisans, et cetera,” says Khensani Mohlatlole, a digital creative.
Renaé Mangena, who owns a digital publication, iQHAWE Magazine, thinks that “there’s a difference between the creative space and then the creative economy.”
The creative economy, she explains, is broader — the flow of money through creative industries, how creativity feeds into markets, how cultural production contributes to GDP. It’s the macroeconomic dimension.
“The creative space in itself, maybe it’s just like the more of where we’re at as artists where any form of creativity is produced,” she continues. “I like to think of it as an ecosystem of sorts.”
Mohlatlole emphasises the relational nature of this ecosystem. “There’s a lot of interconnectedness. Like you need everyone else for it to work, essentially, for it to operate as a creative process.”
It recognises that creative work emerges from networks, collaboration, and the provision of services. A photographer needs a stylist, a makeup artist, a designer. A writer needs editors, curators, platforms.
The digital creative economy only functions as an ecosystem that enables work to be discovered, valued, and eventually monetised. And post-Covid-19, the burst of content creators, CapCut editors, and caption connoisseurs has never been more prominent in South Africa.
Zinhle Zoe, a content creator, responding to comments on her YouTube channel. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
How creatives operate in Jozi’s digital creative economy
Rorisang Sebiloane is unmuted on Google Meets, donning glasses and a large smile, meeting with me in a manner that has become more familiar to Johannesburg’s creatives than any physical studio.
The story of how her media agency, Helang Media, began is quintessentially millennial, shaped by the blend of desire and accident: “In varsity, I used the bursary money to buy an iPhone, naturally, as one does.”
This seemingly small purchase, coupled with a casual suggestion from an iStore sales representative and a friend’s encouragement, led her to start a YouTube channel. Sebiloane soon realised her true passion lay in the digital space, prompting her to drop out of engineering and switch to marketing.
Sebiloane recognized a powerful, universal anxiety among her peers, stating, “People start to realise that nobody really knows what they’re doing, but it doesn’t mean that you won’t get somewhere or you won’t be successful.” This moved her toward collective storytelling in the form a segment called, These Twenties, featuring interviews with people navigating their twenties, normalisingthe non-linear, often confusing, experience of young adulthood.
When I ask Sebiloane whether digital platform mechanics shape her creative choices, she pauses thoughtfully. “In the beginning, I didn’t really care because I was just doing something that I was passionate about. But then when I sat down and I said, okay, this is something that I want to do and I want to take it seriously, you definitely consider the look and feel and the tone of social media.”
But not always.
She refuses to chase viral moments which is what Instagram and Youtube thrive on. “If I’m doing street interviews, I cannot think, okay, I need a viral moment because that’s not what my platform is about,” she insists.
https://youtu.be/3f9ltIzCi08
@okbaddiek – Writer, Content Creator, Fiber Artist
Khensani Mohlatlole’s relationship with social media is more complex and more fraught. “A lot of the things that I’m interested in are by way of the internet as well. It’s quite hard to remove my creative output from it,” she explains.
Unlike Sebiloane, who came to digital platforms after discovering her passion, Mohlatlole has been online since childhood. “I’ve been on the internet since I was six years old. It’s my culture, my school, my home. It already has informed the things that I want to do.”
She recognises the trap of algorithmic thinking. “I will say there are definitely times I’m doing something with a very conscious intent of like, I need to get this many views or I want this much engagement, or I know there’s certain things people will always eat up online.”
But there is another path through this landscape, one that consciously rejects the algorithmic premise entirely.
A day later, Anele Nyanda appears on my screen, a simple backdrop of a wooden wall, her presence carrying a quiet intentionality. She’s an analog film photographer shooting on 35mm or 120mm film.
After posting her photos on Instagram, iQHAWE magazine discovered her work at an exhibition called Threaded by Faith.
“She sent me a direct message on Instagram and asked if we could sit down and have an interview, well not sit down because we did it like this (virtual meeting), so I can just tell her about my work and my practice,” Nyanda explains.
Physical spaces allow people to connect beyond the reaches of the online world. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Nyanda embraces a slower, more intentional creative process, preferring to work solo because, as she puts it, “It takes me quite a while to come up with something.”
This approach contrasts sharply with the fast-paced, content-heavy demands of digital platforms, where constant posting is often seen as necessary for visibility and relevance.
Her philosophy values depth over frequency — fewer images, more meaning. She’s not drawn to social media, saying, “I actually don’t enjoy social media… I feel sometimes a post won’t give my photos justice.” Instead, she favours exhibitions and physical spaces where her work can be fully appreciated.
Touching and engaging with creativity physically is as powerful a tool as snapping it to share online. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Still, she acknowledges the tension between her method and the digital norm: “I also understand that now it seems like every time if you’re a photographer, you need to post or do a lot of work online.” This makes navigating online platforms a challenge for her.
Mohlatlole observed that the professionalisation of digital spaces has created new rules and new expectations. If you’re a photographer, you must have an Instagram presence. If you’re a writer, you must maintain consistent output. If you’re a creator, you must feed the algorithm. But not all editorial photographers reject algorithmic thinking as categorically as Nyanda does.
Nondumiso Shange greets me through the computer screen, connecting and separating us, with an enthusiasm as palpable as her passion for the creative space.
Her entry into the space follows the familiar pattern of digital discovery: she was featured in iQHAWE after they reached out to her on Instagram.
Don’t have kids and you will make it out alive
As a creative, Shange is clear that she is conscious of social media when producing: “If I’m working with Netflix or Multichoice, I’m thinking, how am I going to post this on my feed? What will audience engagement look like? Otherwise, when I’m just doing something for me, then I don’t really think about the feed aspect of things.”
But what if the digital creative economy needs both acceleration and slowness? Both digital-first creatives producing at a consistent basis and traditionally grounded artists developing work that demands time? Both Instagram feeds and exhibitions? Both viral moments and long-form impact? Is it sustainable?
“You have to be super, super flexible all the time. The algorithms change so much, the interests change often,” Mohlatlole explains. “There’s an aspect of you having to ground yourself in something a little bit evergreen and also understand that the moment can change all the time.”
If your next few posts don’t perform well, you might lose out on paid collaborations. It creates a high-pressure environment, even though, ironically, it’s all happening on a platform like Instagram. “Don’t have kids and you will make it out alive,” chuckles Shange.
A lot of companies nowadays look at content creators and influencers as mini ad agencies. Photo: Supplied
Money, money, money, must be funny, in a digital creative’s world
Ideas cost money. Economic privilege is an ongoing battle for creatives.
Sebiloane faces the monetisation crisis that characterises much of South Africa’s creatives where there is this gap between reach and funding access.
“I think that they don’t take it seriously,” she says cynically of institutional funders and brand partners.
“We’ve seen a move of influencers being taken seriously. Unless you have a certain number or certain reach, forget about making money from your content.”
Shange is brutally honest about her own position: “I will say I am more on the privileged end. Not because I have money but because my parents have money.”
“I’m not worried about paying for rent. I’m not worried about groceries. I’m not worried about a roof over my head. I’m not worried about little things that some creatives do have to worry about on a daily basis.”
“Expressing my creative freedom is a bit easier for me as opposed to somebody who’s like actually, they need to work for money.”
Shange makes her living through direct commissions through offering her services as well as paid brand collaborations. Until then, “everything I do is out of pocket.”
“Success looks like me being able to pay rent,” muses Mohlatlole bluntly. She’s been deliberate about treating her creative work as a business from the beginning. “I’ve done the whole nine-to-five thing. My creative work has always been a business in my head.”
She has developed multiple revenue streams as a result.
Close up shot of content creator, Hlayisani Makhubele’s, phone propped on a tripod and displaying Tiktok while posing to shoot a video. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
“I take subscriptions on Patreon,” Mohlatlole explains. “My digital projects bring in the most revenue. And then from time to time, if it seems like a good idea, I will also do paid partnerships with brands.”
The creative cost of commercial work is undesirable at times, “Making ads is like torture. It’s like dragging your balls across glass,” she says with dark humour.
“A lot of companies nowadays look at content creators and influencers as mini ad agencies more than like working on actual storytelling content.”
Hlayisani Makhubele editing footage on her phone in the late hours of the night after shooting content during the day. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Despite this, she’s pragmatic about the economic necessity. “If the money is good enough, I’ll take a check. Provided they align with what I can produce.”
Nyanda does not have the same mentality, but she would like to. “Because my work has just been very conceptual, I ask people to help me (for free). I haven’t been able to monetise. It’s just been passion projects.” When push comes to shove as a creative, “you have to work on the kindness of your friends to help you out,” says Mohlatlole.
Is it seriously every man for himself?
Hlayisani Makhubele preparing to shoot to a make-up tutorial for her TikTok. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
“The other thing with the digital space is that it’s quite dependent on you calling the shots,” says Mohlatlole, “but there’s such a lack of government funding and support.”
Mangena has experienced this first hand having to run a magazine.
@renaé_mangena – founder of iQHAWE Magazine, Digital Content Producer
“It needs money,” Mangena starts, giving a dry, mirthless chuckle with the kind of weariness that comes from knowing the biggest obstacle is always the budget.
She makes an analogy: “I can never go and say become the Minister of, I don’t know, a tech industry but I don’t know the first thing about the tech industry.” Yet somehow, cultural and creative policy is made by people disconnected from the realities of the sector.
Johannesburg’s 2040 Growth and Development Strategy doesn’t even mention the cultural and creative sector, despite the fact that Gauteng province, of which Johannesburg is the economic heart, contributes 46,3% to South Africa’s creative industry GDP and generates the highest employment impact in the sector.
Though there may be funding programs that require local governments agencies to partner with arts and cultural organisations in their cities and towns, iQHAWE is no stranger to the non-guaranteed system of applying for funding.
“I can’t start season three of These Twenties without money!” exclaims Sebiloane.
“At times, it feels like if we had their undeniable support, it probably wouldn’t feel as fickle. It really is all on us,” says Mohlatlole with furrowed eyebrows.
Hlayisani monetises her skill in makeup to support herself and using social media to attract clients is her go to. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
They’ve described an economy that barely exists yet clearly does; one that’s generating real income and real cultural impact despite being structurally unsupported.
They’re building world-class work in a city where new high-tech offices are built while waste piles higher on the next corner, where public parks will continue to rot and where first-come, first-go at perpetually faulty robots is the new norm on the road.
But tomorrow, they’ll all log back on. They’ll post and create and collaborate and network and build.
Because Johannesburg’s world-class status now belongs not to its infrastructure, but to its people. And they’re not waiting for permission to prove it.
FEATURED IMAGE: A woman in a dark room whose face is lit up by the screen of her phone. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
The persistence of unsafe, unregulated minibus taxis in Johannesburg reveals how apartheid’s spatial inequalities continue to shape the failures of South Africa’s transport system.
The majority of Johannesburg residents depend on the informal minibus taxi industry for daily commutes.
Lives of passengers are endangered daily when commuting in unroadworthy minibus taxis, driven by unlicensed drivers, while taxi associations remain inaccessible to passengers.
The minibus taxi industry has the potential to deliver world-class transport; the government and taxi stakeholders need to work together in formulating implementable policies.
Silindelo Sithole, a resident of Alexandra township in Johannesburg, sits with his long legs pressed against one of the two-seaters in the third row from the door in a Siyaya minibus taxi at the MTN taxi rank.
Sithole, 25, holds his breath and silently prays as a visibly drunk man climbs into the driver’s seat. In disbelief, he realises the drunken man will be driving him for the next 20 minutes, from the rank in downtown Johannesburg to Alexandra.
“Taxi people really treat us like trash,” says Sithole, five days later, still visibly shaken.
Minibus taxi drivers in Johannesburg are infamous for breaking traffic rules. Drunk driving, driving without a valid driver’s or vehicle license, skipping red lights, driving on pavements, and overloading taxis. Some of the taxis are poorly maintained and unroadworthy. All these actions compromise the safety of passengers.
The front seat of an old minibus taxi that carries passengers from Braamfontein to Yeoville. Photo: Lulah MapiyeTorn seats, rusted metal and welded metal parts inside a minibus taxi in Johannesburg. Photo: Lulah MapiyeA cello-taped rearview mirror that shows rusted walls inside a minibus taxi queued in Braamfontein. Photo: Lulah Mapiye
Black commuters have faced transport issues since the apartheid era. Apartheid urban planning gave priority to spatial segregation, keeping black South Africans on the outskirts of the city and white people closer to the centre. It had no regard for transport issues that would arise because of said planning. Consequently, black people were forced to rely on public transport, trains and buses, which were neither efficient nor easily accessible.
The lack of accessible transport for black people made way for the introduction of privately owned minibus taxis in townships during the 1970s and early 1980s. Minibus taxis would carry commuters from townships and rural areas to cities for jobs, education, and health facilities.
The unregulated minibus taxi industry was built out of necessity and as a form of resistance to apartheid laws and regulations, which provided limited transport for black people to access non-white areas. Black people became dependent on it for everyday commutes, and due to the apartheid government’s neglect of the industry, it was left to grow massively. Over 70% of South African commuters rely on minibus taxis, according to The National Taxi Alliance (NTA). In some rural or low-income areas, public transport does not even exist, commuters rely solely on minibus taxis.
With the legacy of urban spatial planning still influencing urban use of transport in post-apartheid South Africa, what used to be a race divide is now a class divide. Public transport use has declined, as issues of its inefficiency prevail. This decrease has further fuelled the growth of the privately owned minibus taxi industry. Today with over 3,000 taxis operating in Johannesburg and generating R100-billion annually in the entire country according to the South African National Taxi Council (SANTACO), the industry’s scale belies its informality — a paradox that highlights the state’s failure to regulate one of its most critical urban services.
Thirty-one years after apartheid, the minibus taxi industry still exhibits fierce resistance to regulation and formalisation. It remains a flashpoint of chaos and violence, fuelled by route competition, disputes, assault, and assassinations. During this turbulent power struggle, it is the innocent commuters who bear the brunt of the consequences. In some cases, the assaults are so severe, commuters feel helpless to a point of sacrificing their income, by resigning work or using costly e-hailing services.
A case that illustrates the outcomes of taxi driver’s assaults is that of Nthabiseng Tsunke, a 29-year-old woman hailing from Tshepisong in the West Rand region, who uses a wheelchair. Tsunke claims she resigned from her Information Technology learnership at Bytes Technology, Randburg in 2018 due to lack of assistance boarding taxis during transit.
The Randburg drivers at MTN taxi rank would refuse to help, and constantly nag her with questions regarding the whereabouts of her family members. They would speculate that Tsunke’s family only supports her when it is time for South African Social Security Agency (SASSA) disability grant payouts.
“Each person pays for a seat in a taxi; imagine travelling with someone everywhere I go?” said a frustrated Tsunke. “Also, when I get to work, what would that person be doing?” There are many passengers who feel discriminated and disrespected in taxis. With little to no knowledge of what to do in such situations.
In its current state, the Johannesburg minibus taxi industry does not exhibit characteristics favourable for a world-class African city. Formalising the industry would bring the city closer to world class African standards by ensuring that drivers adhere to road rules and get trained to offer inclusive customer care. Commuters like Sithole and Tsunke would experience safe and inclusive commutes.
Efforts to bring the taxi industry out of the shadows
Through its Taxi Recapitalisation Programme (TRP), the national Department of Transport has been making efforts to move the taxi industry from the informal sector – “the shadows” – to part of the mainstream economy. Since the launch of the programme in October 2006, it has dismally failed to formalise the taxi industry.
This resistance to formalisation and innovation is due to the government’s lack of consultation and collaboration with taxi stakeholders, reported journalist Ivo Vegter in his 2020 report on South Africa’s minibus taxi industry. Santaco rejected the National Land Transport Bill of 2008, which aimed at formalising the taxi industry. The bill also aimed at integrating the taxi industry with the Bus Rapid Transport (BRT) system. The association claimed this bill is part of the government’s plot to strip them of the taxi industry, thus close their businesses.
Recent reports by the department show it has, however, managed to scrap 84,150 old taxis across the country. Despite this achievement, there remain many taxis that operate in questionable conditions in Johannesburg, such as the old Toyota minibus taxis, ‘Siyaya’, which are poorly maintained and only kept on the road to maximise profit.
The government’s failure to scrap all unroadworthy taxis and provide reliable, safe public transport exposes citizens to toxic gases. During one encounter, when I was traveling from Marshalltown to South Hills, the taxi we were in started fuming. The driver parked the taxi by the side road and asked the front-seat passengers to get off. That was because smoke was coming from a part located underneath the front middle space between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.
If it isn’t gas, it’s rainwater coming through the loose part between the taxi door and its frame, says Sithole. The majority of the Siyaya minibus taxis have low suspensions because they are old. While an article from TimesLivedetails the consequences of driving a vehicle with a lowered suspension, another one from Independent Online News (IOL) claims it is illegal. When the Department of Transport scraps these taxis from the road, their actions are met with a lot of backlash.
When unroadworthy and unlicensed vehicles are scrapped off the road or impounded, taxi owners and drivers strike, and commuters are then left to struggle for transport. This highlights how taxi owners prioritise profit over the safety and comfort of residents.
While the scrapping of old minibus taxis is not favourable to some taxi owners, it is essential in ensuring that citizens commute in safe, well-maintained, and roadworthy minibus taxis. An ideal world-class African city should guarantee passengers’ commutes that do not pose a danger to their health.
Cash care measures within the minibus taxi industry
To find out what citizens can do to report rude and drunk drivers, I went to the Faraday Taxi Association (FTA) offices in Yeoville, where I was referred to the headquarters in Rosettenville, South of Johannesburg. The taxis to Rosettenville are located at Faraday taxi rank, an approximate fifteen-minute walk from the Johannesburg CBD. Residents pass abandoned buildings and informal settlements to get to the taxi rank. Alternatively, residents pay R6 for a taxi from Mable Towers, located at 208-212 Jeppe street, to the Faraday taxi rank. The walk there, however long, does become longer and very unsafe when the sun starts going down.
Upon arrival at the association offices, three taxi association branded vehicles are parked outside. Approximately ten men stand, guns on their belts, eating and chatting. I approach a member of the taxi association squad team, who agrees to talk under the condition of anonymity. He shares there are five groups in the FTA. Each number represents specific areas: F1-Faraday, F2-Bree, F3-Kensington, F4-Yeoville branch, and F5-Little Zands.
The squad is stationed at ranks under FTA dailyfrom 5am till 6:30pm. Their main objective is attending to passenger grievances says another man, who wishes not to be named for fear of safety.
He emphasises that minibus taxi commuters need to report lost items and open harassment cases to the squad. “When opening a case, commuters must bring the number plate of a taxi and its travelling time,” he says, because “These details are important when reporting a case as many people do not know the names of the drivers.”
Moreover, not all cases are resolved at the taxi rank, some are taken to the FTA headquarters. Likewise, punishment dependents on the level of offence. Some cases like refusing to give a passenger change warrantees a fine while others like drunk driving result in suspension.
The cash minibus taxi industry of South Africa. Passengers paying their taxi fare. Photo: Lulah Mapiye
From the information shared by the FTA squad member, it is clear all reports are made in person. This is mainly because the FTA does not have a business website. A quick Google search shows only the headquarters’ address. There are no contact details and business hours. A Facebook page, ‘Faraday Taxi Association,’ has 2,700 followers and focuses on selling cars – none of the contact details available online go through.
The FTA’s lack of online presence, as one of the major taxi associations in Johannesburg, reflects the industry’s resistance to formalisation. The industry is stuck with traditional ways of business operation, and these are costly to commuters; they must travel to ranks and association offices to open cases, increasing barriers between the associations and the citizens they claim to serve. The industry lacks good customer care measures, but often resorts to violence to protect its cash.
It is not enough that associations exist, they should be conveniently accessible. Currently, the absence of an active online presence is a technological setback. To achieve a world class African city, the minibus taxi industry needs to offer customer care services, as tabled in the 2020 National taxi lekgotla.
How does South Africa compare?
People from all around the world reside and work in the Johannesburg. Their experiences of Johannesburg’s minibus taxi transport are mostly in comparison with their country’s experiences. Paulin Bitokwela, originally from The Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) is currently residing South of Johannesburg. He compliments the order that exists within the Joburg taxi ranks, pointing out there is a guaranteed first-come, first-serve policy because of the queueing system.
“In many towns in Congo, people do not queue, people squabble to get into the vehicle. The situation is much better in towns like Lubumbashi, but it really does not compare to the order in Joburg,” he says. Bitokwela aadds that in DRC, whenever residents have a problem with taxis, they complain on television shows and directly to the minister’s office, unlike in South Africa, where minibus taxi complaints are mostly directed to taxi associations.
Tlotlo Oletile, a chemical engineer from Botswana who came to Johannesburg in 2022 as part of her exchange programme with the University of Johannesburg seems to agree with Bitokwela on reporting to the department of transport. She said in a WhatsApp interview what she experienced in Joburg minibus taxis was a huge cultural shock. After unknowingly sitting in the front seat, “People passed their money to me and I was supposed to count the money and give people change,” says Oletile, laughing at the recollection of her experience. “I was so surprised because in Gaborone every taxi has a conductor who counts.”
I was so surprised because in Gaborone every taxi has a conductor who counts.
Oletile also points out the advantage that comes with calling out your stop; in Johannesburg you just say “short left” and the taxi stops, while in Gaborone there are designated bus stops which are 200-400m apart. Bitokwela’s compliment of the Johannesburg’s taxi industry’s queueing system and Oletile’s appreciation of the taxi drivers stopping anywhere are testament to the potential Johannesburg taxi industry has to offer world-class African city treatment to its customers.
To fulfil this potential, South Africa should consult with other African countries that have an improved minibus taxi system. The government conducted investigations with various BRT systems such as Ecuador and ColombiaBrisbane, Australia to develop Rea Vaya — a fast, safe, and affordable bus system. These consultations proved vital in the production of a transit system that would play a key role in realising the vision to turn Johannesburg into a world-class African city. The same can be done to improve our minibus taxi industry, such as consulting with countries that have a formalised minibus taxi industry like Botswana.
Vegter, a journalist who worked on a minibus taxi report recommends the government should consult local minibus taxi associations stakeholders when drawing up policies. “These policies should abolish anti-competition behaviours, unsafe vehicles, overloading, and reckless driving. Which would promote competition and improve customer experiences for taxi passengers,” he writes
FEATURED IMAGE: The cash minibus taxi industry of South Africa. Passengers paying their taxi fare. Photo: Lulah Mapiye
Johannesburg is one of Africa’s most culturally diverse cities and home to residents from all corners of the world, making it a global diaspora hub.
From the sound of adhan atop the mosques of Lenasia, to the smells of souvlaki in family-owned restaurants in Edenvale, the bright Chinese arches at the entrance to Chinatown, all the way to the vibrancy of late night salsa socials in the city’s north, Johannesburg is a museum full of global souvenirs.
The city’s relationship with migrants is as old as its inception, influenced by two significant waves of foreign arrivals. Johannesburg was born in the late 19th century after George Harrison’s discovery of gold conglomerate. This prompted the first surge of migration, with an influx of European migrants and Southern African mine labourers to the slowly forming city, with the latter coming from neighbouring regions such as (modern-day) Botswana, Mozambique, Malawi, Angola and Tanzania.
In one section of a United Nations report entitled International Migrants and the City’, Professor’s Karl Beavon, David Bond and Susan Parnell are credited for writing that after the collapse of the apartheid regime, “migrants began to arrive in Johannesburg from virtually every country in Africa and around the world. In a decade, a parochial and insular city in a pariah country was transformed into a jostling, dynamic, cosmopolitan ‘global city’.” This was the second surge. By June 2022, nearly 30 years after the end of apartheid, a city of Johannesburg report revealed that 13% of the city’s residents were born outside of South Africa.
Infographic of City of Johannesburg’s ( COJ ) latest report. Infographic: Sechaba Molete
“What I really like about Johannesburg is the diversity of people and culture. This is the biggest part of the wealth in this country,” says Barbosa Oliveira Junior from Brazil, who moved to Johannesburg in 1996.
Oliveira came to Johannesburg from a city called Belo Horizonte to continue his work with a Christian non-profit organisation that works throughout the African continent. Johannesburg has proven to be a place of fulfilment for Oliveira as the city has become a part of his identity.
For me, home is where my relationships are. I feel as comfortable in Johannesburg as I do in Brazil.
Curating a home environment filled with Brazilian music, football games, and Portuguese communication is how Barbosa enculturates his South African-born children.
Infographic outlining Johannesburg’s 2 main waves of migration. Infographic: Sechaba Molete
Johannesburg: The City of Dreams
Johannesburg is still deemed to be a city of realised dreams and opportunity for many nationals around the world. “I think Joburg is where the money is, because I’ve been to Cape Town and it’s not the same,” says Algerian Barbershop co-owner Hocine Moffat.
In September 2016, Hocine moved to Johannesburg after being invited by his cousin, who had migrated to the city eight years prior. Johannesburg was a city of opportunity for his cousin, and it proved to be the same for him. After less than 10 years of living in Johannesburg, he recently became co-owner of a Mediterranean Barber shop. The indistinguishable difference between his calm and welcoming temperament and the atmosphere of the store is a marker of a non-South African who’s managed to construct a safe and familiar space 9 970 kilometres away from home.
“My dad always raised me to respect everyone and be kind always. Respect is iaqdar, kind is iddaq in my language Tamazight,” says Hocine when asked about how his culture influences his approach to business in the city.
Hocine resides in Johannesburg North, and although the Algerian community in the city is small and spread out, the Algerian national preserves his culture by participating in religious practices and holidays such as Ramadan and Eid.
The fragrant smell of chai glows in Ince Belli teacups, the intermittent cheers of men of different ages and the sound of Turkish comments paint a different picture from Hocine’s experience of community in a foreign city.
“On match days, we go to Otto, it’s a place in Greenside. It’s a very good social environment for us, we chill, we have our tea, and once the game is over, we head back home,” says second-generation immigrant Omer Turkmen.
Algerian Barber , Hocine Moffat tending to one of his customers at his barbershop in Victory Park. Photo: Sechaba Molete
Omer and Alpern Tiris belong to a small but close-knit community of Turkish immigrants in Johannesburg and live in a house with other Turkish men from different families. The house serves as an alternative form of university accommodation funded by the parents of young adult Turkish men in Johannesburg. The purpose of this accommodation arrangement is to provide a conducive space for the young men to live apart from women and observe their religious laws while being a short distance from the city’s two major universities.
“We have set times when we can go out and can’t go out due to religious reasons,” Omer explains. However, because football is an integral part of the Turkish cultural experience, the young men spend a significant portion of their free time connecting with fellow countrymen over a game at Otto Shisa Bar.
The formation of new contemporary culture in Johannesburg
The influence of migrants and their communities in Johannesburg extends far beyond tLatin American-inspired colloquial greeting “Ola”. It can be found in the city’s architecture, restaurants, music scene and entertainment.
The Taste of India restaurant in Parkhurst is run by a 1st generation immigrant family from India. It serves as an example of the influence of foreign cultures in Johannesburg. Photo: Sechaba Molete
From when the sun begins to set on Thursday evening till the early hours of Monday Morning, various bars and restaurants in Johannesburg are transformed into Caribbean, Latin American or Portuguese-speaking African countries. Salsa, Bachata and Kizomba from Cuba, the Dominican Republic and Angola respectively are three different dance styles that have been brought together to form Johannesburg’s SBK (Salsa, Bachata and Kizomba) scene.
“I would describe the SBK scene as a social and interactive party. People meet at these parties and ask each other to dance,” says Paciano Arleandro Sinankwa, owner of the Afro Latin Social.
Various South African and non-South African Joburg residents attend SBK events known as socials, where a dance instructor typically teaches attendees a dance style before leaving them at the mercy of the DJ to explore and experience other dance forms. For instance, the instructor might teach the couples how to Salsa in the beginning, but as the night continues and as the DJ begins to change genres, the couples begin to find themselves deeply enthralled in the world of Kizomba or Bachata. Although Central and Latin American and African migrants brought their dance styles to Johannesburg, they aren’t necessarily the only people keeping it alive in the city of gold. Ritmo La Vida is a South African-owned dance studio in the heart of Randburg that is a testament to the cultural convergence that continually takes place as a result of Joburg’s multicultural atmosphere.
Johannesburg residents at a Kizomba dance class on a Friday night at the Ritmo La Vida Dance Studio in Boskruin. Photo: Sechaba Molete
“Make yourself feel at home,” says the owner, Ali Anderson, as he begins to prepare himself a drink of brandy. Anderson is an interesting character who’s confident yet humble, humorous yet orderly and commanding yet sensitive. He’s racially ambiguous with an Asian name, European surname and the ability to switch South African vernacular languages that can only be explained by him having lived in Johannesburg for a substantial amount of time. Anderson’s paradoxical nature places him in the perfect position to be able to advance Latin culture in Johannesburg without creating an atmosphere that’s reminiscent of colonialism and Africa’s history of idolising foreign cultures.
I like to come here because I understand the music. I lived in Brazil for three years, and it’s very nice to be able to have a bit of Brazil here in South Africa.
“I like it, it feels like cheap travel because South Africans are actually a minority in the Kizomba space,” says Ritmo La Vida student Reabetswe (Rio) Modiba, when asked how he feels about participating in the preservation of non-South African cultures in Johannesburg.
Modiba believes that many Johannesburg residents are inadvertently exposed to and experience the effects and influence of Zouk (another Caribbean genre of music and dance) and Latin culture in their everyday lives without their knowledge.
“I think the biggest thing is people not even knowing that it exists (Zouk). They’ll see it, they’ll like it and not know what it is. My mission is to spread it amongst our people because there are already influences of Zouk. If you listen to Sava’s song Isoka, it has a Zouk beat. You could dance Kizomba to it,” Modiba passionately continues.
For Xola Benya, Ritmo La Vida is more than just a cultural experience. The dance studio is a reminder of his life in Brazil and an opportunity for him to feel part of a global community.
Ritmo La Vida is a piece of home for migrants and the perfect representation of Johannesburg for South Africans.
Racial Dynamics: Apartheid’s legacy impacts the migrant experience
Many of the migrants who spoke to Wits Vuvuzela are either positively or negatively affected by the legacy of Apartheid. For instance, many of their experiences of the city are akin to those of middle-class Johannesburg residents because of their proximity to whiteness. This is one of the main factors that contributes to most of them having positive socio-economic experiences. In an academic paper titled ‘European Immigrants in Johannesburg: Perceptions, Privileges and their Implication for Migrant Experiences’, Professor Terry-Ann Jones and Dr Tamara Last make an interesting observation, that “Europeans are largely absent from South African’s imagined identity of an immigrant”.
Although none of the non-African migrants who spoke to Wits Vuvuzela are European, many of them are white-passing and experience the privileges that come with being white in South Africa. At the same time, many of these ex-pats struggle to make sense of the city’s racial categories, viewing the categories as unnecessary and limiting.
Infographic detaling the findings of professor Jones and researcher Last’s findings. Infographic: Sechaba Molete
“For me, it’s even weird to say ‘black South Africans’ because I didn’t grow up with those labels. In Brazil, it doesn’t matter what the colour of your skin is. What matters is if you’re Brazilian period,” Barbosa says.
Hocine shares the same sentiments as Barbosa and believes that it is unfortunate that many Joburg residents are extremely race conscious.
“Since I’ve been here, it’s still that thing about the skin, which is sad. It mustn’t be like that,” Hocine says with concern.
Hocine’s primary identity lies in him being Berber, which was the predominant ethnic group in North Africa before the Arab conquest of that region. However, because the Berber identity is one that not many Johannesburg residents are familiar with, he identifies as white. Unfortunately for him, this decision has not been able to shield him from the xenophobic reactions and remarks that result from South African Joburg residents learning about his heritage.
“They say, ‘You’re not from South Africa. South Africa is for black people. I’m from Soweto, and if I had a gun right now, I could shoot you right in the face,’” Hocine explains calmly.
The anecdotes and perspectives of the various migrants regarding race and xenophobia serve as evidence that Apartheid’s legacy of hyper race-consciousness and inequality play a role in the experiences of expats in Johannesburg.
A commitment to Johannesbug
Although migrants in Johannesburg are not immune to the effects of Johannesburg’s service delivery and infrastructural issues, many of them seem to hold the city in high regard.
“I don’t mind staying in Joburg for another 10 years. I had plans in my mind to move overseas, but if that won’t happen, I don’t mind staying here,” says Hocine his barbershop.
Just before Benya leaves and the Ritmo La vida dance class comes to an end, he reflects on his Johannesburg experience as a South African who’s spent most of his life abroad.
“It’s a city of many tales, that’s how I’d put it. It’s incredible because there are not many cities like Joburg. It offers world-class experiences,” he says with a contemplative glare in the distance.
Just like Benya, most of the migrants who spoke to Wits Vuvuzela view Johannesburg’s cultural diversity as the wealth that places it as a world-class African city.
FEATURE IMAGE: An image of buildings and apartments in the heart of Johannesburg, Braamfontein. Photo: Sechaba Molete
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Scientology’s presence in Joburg is dubiously significant, what does this reveal about the city of gold?
Thank you for loving me
when I still tasted
of heartache and war.”
- ‘Happily Ever After’ by Nakita Gill in, Fierce Fairytales, & Other Stories to Stir Your Soul
The heartache and war of apartheid South Africa ended in 1994, yet, in that time, scars forgot to form, and opened wounds were left bleeding.
Poverty, joblessness, homelessness, displacement, neglect, disparity – these are all part of the picture of Joburg City.
In a metropolis with over six-million people, living in Joburg can be lonely, whether it’s the high life in Sandton or down-and-out in Hillbrow, even the widest of smiles can mask the pain of lost hope. Of being incomplete. Making community ever more important.
There are those who share a way of thinking, others who believe in the same god, some who share stories through music and poetry, and many who hold politics as their armour. All uniting with a feeling of belonging.
But what happens in a city like Johannesburg? A city with the collective trauma left by apartheid, a city where people are gasping for air as the tide gets higher? What happens when the curious case of Scientology makes its way into the city.
Scientology: the religion Tom Cruise made famous…or infamous
In life, at one point or another, it is only natural to wonder what your purpose is, where you are going, and who you truly are. These are questions you may ask yourself, your parents, someone you trust. These are also the questions that Scientology claims to answer.
In his book, Scientology: A New Slant on Life, L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the movement, described the religion as “the science of knowing how to know answers,” explaining that, “a Scientologist is a specialist in spiritual and human affairs,” believing in the spirit’s connection to all things around it, including itself.
Are they really? Photo: Ekta Seebran.
Going to the chapel and we’re…not going to pray, because Scientologists don’t do that. Photo: Ekta Seebran.
Happily, immortalised in stone. Photo: Ekta Seebran.
The religion takes its lead from established faiths that are practiced all around the world, these include Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism, among others. Through these, it promises to guide practitioners toward attaining the goal of survival and immortality through repairing the negative parts of one’s life. In this effort, Scientologists practice a combination of mental and spiritual improvement counselling, including auditing and advanced training, which apply the principles and goals of the religion.
At the top of a hill in Kyalami, Johannesburg, rests the advanced training centre of Africa. Here, people from all over the world can do counselling and complete their training courses in the fortified castle.
Unbeknown to some, Scientology has come to gain a significant following in South Africa, with the Church of Scientology in Johannesburg being established in 1957, in Hillbrow, and later being moved to Kensington, which is where it can be found today.
Some may wonder why Scientology became so incredible, and notoriously, renowned. Is Tom Cruise’s celebrity to blame, did he promote the need for the religion, or is there truly merit in its practice?
Counselling your way to ‘you complete me’
Jade Lopes is a fourth-generation South African Scientologist and volunteers as a “Sea Org”. Sea Orgs work seven days a week, and are considered the most devoted Scientologists, dedicating their life to the religion by symbolically signing a billion-year contract.
“I think I did my first course when I was about five years old. I did a course called ‘Learning How to Learn’, and it was amazing because it gave me the ability to study from a young age. And then there was really a point in my life where I started receiving counselling, and this was probably at the age of 19 or 20,” muses Lopes.
…and cancel it! Photo: Ekta Seebran.
“During the counselling, probably on session 20 or something like that, I realised that I felt happier, like, stably happy, you know? It wasn’t like I had my session and then two hours later I’m back to being sad again or whatever it was. When I realised that I was more in control of myself, that was when I was like, okay, Scientology is it for me,” she affirms.
This counselling ,which Jade expressed such appreciation for, is known as auditing, and uses the practice of ‘Dianetics’.
Defined by L. Ron Hubbard, dianetics is “what the soul is doing to the body,” believing that our minds hold images of past experiences of pain or distress, called engrams, which manifests negatively on a person’s physical and mental health. Dianetics works to “clear” the mind of these engrams through reliving the experience in auditing sessions and letting them go, all in an effort to get rid of the reactive mind – responsible for emotional reactions – and bring the logical mind forward.
“Honestly, Scientology saved me”, says Sandile Hlayisi, the chairperson for the “Volunteer Ministers in South Africa” programme.
“If I hadn’t found Scientology when I did, I’d either be a very miserable lawyer or I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere,” Hlayisi considers, explaining that growing up in Soshanguve, north of Pretoria, he had a typical township childhood, which wasn’t easy, and that during his second year at UNISA, studying law, a friend of his called him.
Sandile describes the conversation as such;
“Remember all those questions you used to ask as a kid? On life, the meaning of life, the universe, all these questions you had in school?”, the friend inquired.
“Yeah,” Sandile agreed.
“I think I found a place that might be able to help you find the answers.”
With the promise of help, guidance, answers to live a better life, why wouldn’t you join Scientology?
Likewise, Kiran Dhiman, a Scientologist all the way from India, now living in Johannesburg, shared her story with Wits Vuvuzela. Dhiman said that she joined the religion because she was, “struggling in life,” explaining that it helped her to communicate with people and tackle her problems effectively.
The Scientology network, which holds a collection of media pertaining to Scientology, their teachings and practices, shares similar stories in their series titled, “Meet a Scientologist.”
Stories of people needing help and finding solace in the religion’s offering of counselling through auditing, and life skills through training courses. Hopeful stories, aspirational stories. In a city with a history of trauma still endured today, it offers a fertile ground to plant such seeds of hope.
You want the truth?
William Gumede, associate professor at Wits University, explained in an article written from a keynote he gave in 2022, that the challenge in rebuilding South Africa stems from the damage created in the wake of apartheid.
Gumede illustrates that development efforts such as building a democracy and growing entrepreneurship become stunted and replaced by broken communities, families, and an inability to engage thoughtfully in relationships, in the economy, in the workplace, and so on.
What the oppressors leave, Gumede explains, are human casualties who feel as if “the self has no foundation” any longer.
And here enters Scientology.
As I drive from Wits University down toward Kennsington, fear fills my stomach, and adrenaline reaches my heart. The religion is shrouded in controversy, “It’s a cult!” is the over-arching narrative. All I could think was, “I elected to spend the next four weeks inside a cult.” My sense of self-preservation must’ve escaped me when I wasn’t looking.
Upon entering the illustrious church of Scientology I was handed a questionnaire to fill out: name… age… what struck your interest in Scientology?
The question that stood out the most, however, asked what area in life I needed help with, giving options ranging from school or work to family or relationships. From there I learnt that the church offers courses, both free and paid, which promise to help you improve your life.
For Dhiman, Hlayisi, and Lopes this proved to be true. Encouraging all to not only engage in counselling and further training, but to join the religion as volunteers.
Through community work, human rights initiatives, and education programmes, Scientology in Johannesburg demonstrates its goal to “make the world a safe and peaceful place,” gushed Kiran.
One of these initiatives is known as the “Volunteer Minister” a free programme that comprises of online courses. According to the official Kyalami Castle Scientology website, “Volunteer Ministers are dedicated to assisting others not only in life saving situation, but also by helping individuals overcome difficulties in their daily lives.”
Dhiman further enthuses that South Africa has the highest number of trained volunteer ministers and leaders in the world, with 40 000 active workers.
In 2022, Scientology Volunteer Ministers were recognised for the humanitarian work they did during the COVID-19 pandemic. Among the work the ministers were applauded for, the group’s initiative to sanitise over 70 000 buildings stood out, this was recognised by the city, and the Johannesburg Metro Police Department. The group was presented with an award made of a bronzed pair of JMPD standard issue boots, for their efforts.
Beyond this are initiatives including, “The truth about drugs” programme, which is an education-based programme, as described by both Sandile and Kiran, which seeks to teach people about drugs in hopes that they will make more informed decisions regarding their consumption or experimentation when confronted with narcotics. From mental health initiatives and human rights to education in life improvement and spiritual enlightenment, Scientology promotes itself. It is difficult though to ignore the controversy held over the religion, and subsequently makes one consider the implications of such work.
But can you handle the truth?
Controversies and allegations against Scientology have dominated the narrative around the religion, painting the group as a money-hungry, exploitative, cult. Reconciling the evident humanitarian image of the church with the darkness of its portrait is conflicting, but one that cannot be dismissed.
In 2014 the church was taken to the Johannesburg High Court by two of its former members, Ernest and Gaye Corbett. The Corbetts claimed that the church failed to repay at R5,8-million loan, and were demanding a full repayment with interest, amounting to R16-million. Allegations against the church included secretive internal financial dealings, separating families, and unfair policies within the religion.
Earlier this year, the church was put on blast again for unfair labour practices and exploitation of workers at its rehab facility in Rustenburg, Narconon Africa. The case is still being investigated.
One of the earliest grievances against the church, was its use of ‘Dianetics’ as counselling, with the American Psychological Association and the American Medical Association dismissing Hubbard’s work as pseudoscientific, soon after the release of his book, Dianetics: The Science of the Mind.
This fact prompts the question: with the impact apartheid South Africa left, does the perceived harm of Scientology’s presence in the city of gold indicate an exploitable vulnerability in Joburg?
One suspenseful morning, I took my third trip to the Johannesburg Church of Scientology. At 12:45pm sharp I participated in the church’s offering of one free dianetics session.
My auditor first briefly explained the process, asked if I was comfortable, and then asked me a series of questions including my parents’, grandparents’, aunts’, uncles’, brothers’, and sisters’, names, ages, and quality of relationship. Though I answered the latter, I declined giving any names. An effort in exercising caution.
The hour encompassed me closing my eyes and being told to find my earliest memory of pain. From there, I verbally relived the memory, working to recall as much detail as possible, and once I did, I was told to let it go.
Now, doubtful and curious about the practice of auditing, I spoke to counselling psychologist and psychotherapy researcher, Kerry Gordon, who explained, “what’s important in psychotherapy is that there has to be a relationship of trust built, and we really take it at the clients pace, guided by how quickly or slowly the client wants to go into the traumatic memory, which is often fragmented.”
Gordon noted that though there is a similarity between the practice of dianetics and psychology with regard to working through trauma, there are complexities when counselling people through it, explaining that there are dangers to applying one method to all clients.
“Not all traumas look the same, you can’t exactly apply the same methodology or pace to each person.”
Scientologists are known to not believe in the practice of psychology and psychiatry.
When speaking to Hlayisi, he said, “The only thing we don’t believe in is when something becomes harmful for people, that’s when we have a problem.”
Explaining that, “everything has a place in the world, the only thing we have a problem with is when an industry or sector abuses their power and ends up harming the individual.”
“Why are you as a psychologist or psychiatrist sexually abusing your clients?” he expressed further
In the same vein, Jade explained that part of the issue is unnecessary prescription of medication, saying that “a psychologist can refer you to a psychiatrist, who can prescribe medication,” further advocating for dianetics by highlighting her emotional stability following auditing sessions, positing, “After years of counselling, does that person feel stable and okay?”
To this, Gordon adds a significant fact, “[In any psychological practice] one person is intrinsically more vulnerable than the other, which is why that accountability is really important, there’s someone objective to report me to. The process is open. It all gets documented,” she continued.
Thus, signifying a key concern with Scientology, it is plagued with secrecy and confidentiality, there is something unknown behind the paywall.
Hlayisi explains that they are legally obligated to report harm or potential harm, but what protections to the receivers of auditing have?
Gordon emphasises that without an ethical code, “there’s real scope for abusive power there.”
Joburg: A world class African city?
One of the qualities of a world class city is the strength of its global presence. Scientology’s presence in Johannesburg, and significantly the centre housed at the Kyalami Castle, for Advanced Training in Africa, exemplifies a significant placement in the continent. Joburg: World Class African City … Joburg: Gateway to Africa.
These labels mask the reality of South Africa, the reality that Joburg is still bleeding, the reality that if untreated, the wound is susceptible to infection.
Characterising Scientology as completely good or completely bad is something that I cannot do in good faith. Though, can we really be a world class city if our citizens are left vulnerable to potential harm?
FEATURED IMAGE: Claiming a place in the cIty, calling those desperate and in need. Photo: Ekta Seebran
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