In the space of just a few weeks, South Africa has been shaken by a flurry of political scandals, arrests, assassinations, and suspensions that read like the script of a crime thriller. But this is not fiction. From the corridors of government to the backrooms of political parties, we are witnessing either the collapse of our democratic institutions or the long-overdue reckoning with the criminalisation of politics. The real question is: is the rot finally being exposed?
One of the explosive claims made by KwaZulu-Natal Police Commissioner Nhlanhla Mkhwanazi was that when Vusumuzi “Cat” Matlala was arrested, police discovered messages on his devices indicating he was receiving inside information from police “fixers”, including meetings arranged with suspended Police Minister Senzo Mchunu.
Cat Matlala, a name tied to shady tenders, including one linked to murdered whistleblower Babita Deokaran, has most recently received a tender with Tshwane SAPS. His case is not an outlier. It is part of a wider, disturbing pattern: police officials enabling criminal syndicates, with political figures complicit in the cover-up.
The suspension of Minister of Police Senzo Mchunu following Mkhwanazi’s damning claims is only the beginning. It is alleged that Mchunu protected criminal networks within the police turning the justice system into the very problem it should be solving. Journalist Mandy Wiener has called the positions of police minister and national commissioner a “poisoned chalice” and these revelations seem to prove it. Yet the idea of high-ranking police figures colluding with criminals is not new. Think Jackie Selebi and Radovan Krejcir. This is a cycle we have seen before.
Shortly after Mchunu’s suspension, Patriotic Alliance (PA) deputy leader Kenny Kunene, until recently a PR councillor in the City of Johannesburg, was found in the company of Katiso “KT” Molefe, the alleged mastermind behind DJ Sumbody’s assassination. Kunene claimed he was escorting a journalist – yet that journalist has never reported on what would have been the scoop of a lifetime: Kunene being found at Molefe’s house during the arrest.
Kunene resigned, and the mayor has claimed the city’s “hands are tied.” This incident is yet another glimpse into the entanglement of political office and gangsterism.
Meanwhile, Gauteng Police Commissioner Fannie Masemola is reported to have attempted to intervene in Matlala’s arrest corroborating Mkhwanazi’s assertion that parts of the police are proverbially in bed with criminals. The system is protecting itself.
This past week, the Minister of Higher Education, Nobuhle Nkabane, resigned after being accused of lying to Parliament’s portfolio committee regarding the appointment of SETA board members. Her resignation means she escapes the very accountability that parliamentary oversight was supposed to ensure.
These are not isolated incidents. The list grows longer: the assassination of whistleblowers and construction mafia figures, allegations within the ANC, U.S. Treasury sanctions, and a justice system that increasingly appears either captured or hollowed out.
It is no coincidence that as state capacity erodes, criminal networks rise. The ANC, weakened and divided, can no longer police its own ranks let alone govern ethically. Political office is being used to legitimise criminal empires. Today’s councillors were yesterday’s construction mafia bosses. And tomorrow’s ministers? Who knows.
So what? This erosion of the line between politics and crime puts South Africa on the brink. As citizens lose faith in democratic systems, they may begin to embrace authoritarianism or strongman figures who promise order through force. The Patriotic Alliance’s recent calls to reinstate the death penalty while its leaders are under scrutiny are telling.
President Cyril Ramaphosa has responded by firing some implicated officials and promising yet another commission of inquiry. But after years of unattended recommendations gathering dust on his desk, society has little reason to believe that justice will follow.
Firoz Cachalia, a former ANC politician and now a Wits law professor, has been appointed interim Police Minister. He enters a poisoned environment, one where few believe the rule of law still applies evenly. Will he win public confidence in a country where institutions seem broken?
This last month has exposed a web of criminality so vast and interconnected that each new scandal feels less shocking than the last. Viewed in isolation, these incidents may appear as individual failures but step back, and the picture becomes clearer: a democracy under siege from within.
We cannot afford to normalise this rot. The fight against corruption must be unrelenting – not just for the sake of good governance, but for the survival of our democracy.
The first Obiter Lounge at Wits provided a platform for debate and re-imagination of freedom.
Wits students launched the first-ever Obiter Lounge with raw, unfiltered debate on what freedom really means 31 years into democracy.
Tensions flared as students clashed over gender, power and justice proving freedom is still a battleground in South Africa.
It is a bold space for truth-telling, growth, and uncomfortable but necessary dialogue.
Marking 31 years of democracy in South Africa, the Wits Law Students Council (LSC), hosted their first Obiter Lounge at Solomon Mahlangu House on April 25, 2025, designed as a space created for unfiltered, student-led dialogue.
This is in collaboration with the Wits Moot Society, the Black Lawyers Association Student Chapter (Wits BLA-SC), and the South African Women Lawyers Association (SAWLA).
The event invited students to speak openly about the promises enshrined in South Africa’s Constitution and question whether these are reflected in the daily lives of ordinary citizens.
Lesedi Lekoto, LSC gender and transformation officer opening a new topic for discussion. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Initial hesitation gave way to passionate contributions as students reflected on freedom as it relates to race, gender, class, education, and safety. Finger snaps and applause punctuated personal encounters of freedom: from political to academic, economic to social, and from safety to justice.
The turning point of the event came when controversial opinions sparked gasps, murmurs of disbelief, and passionate rebuttals, raising tensions as someone on the floor expressed that that once some black South Africans have been liberated in terms of wealth they isolate themselves from assisting those in lower positions than them, making them the most selfish out there.
This was received with backlash as others critiqued that blaming others for upward social mobility should come with the awareness that many were indoctrinated and fought for their freedom and others reminded the individual that black people must work twice as much to earn half as much and that escaping poverty is the point.
Students attentively listen in as a speaker expresses their thoughts on what freedom means to them. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
This conversation was exactly what Mihle Kunju, LSC Chairperson, hoped the session to spark, “The main takeaway I envisioned was the creation of tolerance for unpopular but somewhat logical views.”
He believes that it is through uncomfortable and brutal conversation that the country will realise its true purpose.
“The National Dialogue needs to be spearheaded by young people and requires an unwavering commitment to even the most radical ideals”, he said.
Third-year LLB student Mandisa Khathi captured the spirit of the evening: “It has opened my eyes to how much we can learn from one another. Spaces like this that bring people together are truly special.”
She said: “It’s refreshing to meet like-minded people who are as hopeful about the future of South Africa. Plus, it’s a great space for those who might not usually be heard to share their voices.”
The Obiter Lounge has officially set the tone for a new era of student dialogue that is raw, reflective, and urgently necessary.
FEATURED IMAGE: Students gathered in Solomon Mahlangu House for the Obiter Lounge. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
Thirty years after the dawn of democracy, Johannesburg remains a city of profound contradictions.
In 1994, South Africa stood at the threshold of an era that promised equality, freedom and unity under the banner of democracy. The country’s first democratic elections saw the formal dismantling of apartheid – a system of institutionalised racial segregation that had oppressed millions of people for nearly half a century. The world watched in awe as Nelson Mandela cast his vote in South Africa’s first democratic elections, a momentous symbol of the country’s transition from apartheid to democracy.
Johannesburg, a city of gold and dreams, was at the heart of this new South Africa. It was a city meant to reflect the promise of equality, opportunity and freedom for all, including those people who sought refuge in its streets. But 30 years later, Johannesburg tells a more complex story.
Although democracy may have opened its arms to political freedom, it also incubated the rise of anti-immigrant sentiments and left economic divides not only unbridged but, in some cases, exacerbated. As the wealth gap widens, many South Africans are left asking why democracy has not resulted in fair economic distribution. This has led to socioeconomic upheaval and created fertile ground for the anti-immigrant movement in the heart of Johannesburg.
A history of migration
South Africa’s history with migration, both forced and voluntary, predates the advent of democracy. Under colonialism and apartheid, the country’s economy heavily relied on migrant labour from neighbouring countries like Mozambique, Malawi and Lesotho to fuel its mines and agricultural sectors. However, the legal framework of apartheid strictly regulated the movement of black South Africans and foreign workers, maintaining rigid social hierarchies.
With the end of apartheid in 1994, South Africa became a beacon of hope for many people across the continent. Neighbouring countries, having supported the anti-apartheid struggle, anticipated that the new South Africa would lead the charge in promoting pan-African unity and open its borders to fellow Africans seeking better opportunities. Indeed, South Africa has experienced a significant influx of immigrants, particularly from neighbouring countries in southern Africa.
The new government aimed to dismantle the socioeconomic structures that had marginalised most of the population. Economic instability, political turmoil and violence in countries like Zimbabwe, Mozambique and the Democratic Republic of the Congo have driven many of their citizens to seek refuge in South Africa, with Johannesburg being a primary destination.
The post-apartheid government embraced a more open immigration policy, reflecting its commitment to human rights. However, this liberal stance has not been without friction. Jo’burg’s urban environment has seen a rise in competition for jobs, housing and services, often leading to resentment among local communities towards immigrants.
Socioeconomic factors
Johannesburg’s skyline, dotted with high-rise buildings and cranes, suggests a city of unrelenting progress. Yet, beneath this glittering façade lies one of the most unequal cities in the world. The World Bank and various studies indicate that South Africa remains a highly unequal society. A significant portion of the population was denied access to economic possibilities because of apartheid policies and South Africa began the 1990s with already high levels of inequality. The Gini coefficient, a common measure of inequality, places South Africa among the most unequal countries globally, and nowhere is this divide more palpable than in Johannesburg. Wealthy suburbs like Sandton flourish, whereas townships and informal settlements such as Alexandra languish in poverty and neglect.Economic inequality in Johannesburg is not a new phenomenon. Still, the promise of democracy – with political freedom supposed to translate into economic opportunity – has failed many people. Thirty years later, democracy has not led to the mass reduction in inequality that so many people hoped for. South Africa’s high unemployment rate, particularly among the youth, has fuelled frustrations that are often misdirected towards immigrants. Many South Africans perceive immigrants as competitors for scarce resources and jobs. This perception is exacerbated by high levels of poverty and inequality, particularly in informal settlements.
Many immigrants in Johannesburg rely on informal or small-scale businesses to earn a living, facing opportunity and vulnerability in a challenging economic climate. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
As democracy stumbled in delivering economic equality, Johannesburg also became a beacon for migrants across Africa fleeing political instability, war and economic hardship. Zimbabweans, Nigerians, Somalis and Congolese, among others, arrived in the city in search of work and safety. They brought with them their entrepreneurial spirit, opening small businesses in the informal sector and contributing to the city’s vibrant culture.
But for many native South Africans living in poverty, these migrants became convenient scapegoats. As unemployment surged to more than 30% and service-delivery failed, accusations that foreigners were “stealing jobs” or “draining public resources” took root. Anti-immigrant sentiments morphed into violent outbreaks of xenophobia, most notably in 2008 and again in 2015. Johannesburg, the city meant to embody the dreams of a democratic South Africa, became the epicentre of anti-immigrant violence.
Police officers patrolling neighbourhoods known for tensions. South African authorities play a critical role in managing tensions, with police presence aiming to prevent violence and protect communities. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
Perceptions of crime have significantly influenced anti-immigrant sentiment. A series of violent incidents involving immigrants have given rise to the stereotype that foreign nationals are responsible for crime in the city. Although studies indicate that crime is a multifaceted issue not limited to immigrant populations, these perceptions have been manipulated by politicians and media, deepening divisions.
Political rhetoric plays a crucial role in shaping public opinion on immigration. Political parties and leaders have used anti-immigrant rhetoric to galvanise support, portraying immigrants as a burden on social services and a threat to job security. This has led to waves of xenophobic violence, with Johannesburg witnessing several violent outbreaks against immigrant communities. This politicisation has further entrenched negative attitudes, undermining social cohesion.
The rise of movements like Operation Dudula – a vigilante group targeting foreign-owned businesses and calling for the mass deportation of immigrants – reflects how dangerous this scapegoating can become. Such movements frame the immigration issue in narrow, exclusionary terms, reducing it to a zero-sum game in which the presence of foreign nationals is directly correlated with the suffering of South Africans.
Politicians such as minister of sports, arts and culture Gayton McKenzie, the leader of the Patriotic Alliance, and former mayor of Johannesburg Herman Mashaba, who leads ActionSA, are among the politicians who promoted anti-immigrant rhetoric.
McKenzie has called for the enforcement of stricter immigration laws to control the influx of illegal immigrants. He believes that this would help to protect jobs for South Africans, particularly in impoverished communities. In turn, Mashaba emphasises the importance of adhering to the rule of law and has advocated for improved border security and better tracking of immigrants within the country.
Public policy specialist Dr Kagiso “TK” Pooe, says McKenzie and Mashaba have highlighted a problem that is often ignored. The South African government and some liberal-leaning publications have glossed over average South Africans discomfort with illegal migration. “What parties like Action SA, the Patriotic Alliance and the like did was address their long-ignored plea for redress on this matter,” he says.
In response to rising xenophobia, numerous civil society organisations have emerged in Johannesburg, advocating for immigrant rights and fostering dialogue between communities. Initiatives like the African Centre for Migration & Society have sought to document immigrants’ experiences and challenge negative stereotypes. These organisations play a vital role in promoting tolerance and understanding amid the ongoing challenges.
Thandi, who asked that only her first name be used, is a 28-year-old Malawian immigrant who arrived in Johannesburg two years ago, fleeing economic hardship and political instability in her home country. Lacking legal documentation, she found herself in a desperate situation, needing to support her family back home.
After weeks of searching for work, Thandi finally found a job at a local restaurant. However, the experience was far from what she had hoped. Her employer took advantage of her undocumented status, paying her significantly less than other employees and making her work long hours without breaks. “I was afraid to speak up,” Thandi recalls. “I needed the job, but I knew I was being treated unfairly.”
One day, Thandi fell ill and could not report to work. When she returned, her employer informed her that she would not be paid for the days she missed and threatened to report her to immigration authorities if she continued to cause “trouble”. Feeling powerless, she accepted the terms, enduring the harsh conditions for fear of losing her only source of income.
Thandi’s story highlights the vulnerability faced by many undocumented immigrants in Johannesburg. They often endure exploitation, fearing legal repercussions while striving for better lives. “I just wanted a chance to work and support my family,” Thandi says, emphasising the harsh reality of seeking opportunities in a challenging environment.
Democracy, capitalism and the divided city
Immigration to South Africa has been growing, with significant numbers of migrants moving for employment and education. However, there was a decline in migration during the covid-19 pandemic.
Anti-immigrant sentiment in Johannesburg is not only a fringe phenomenon: it has found resonance in political movements and everyday conversation.
One man, who prefers to remain anonymous, speaks honestly about his frustrations. “These foreigners come here and take what’s ours,” he says. “We don’t have enough jobs, houses or food, but they seem to have their own businesses and drive cars. Why should they get what we don’t have? This is our country.”
So, where does the blame lie? Has democracy failed Johannesburg, or has the city’s experiment with capitalism exacerbated the divide? The Human Sciences Research Council’s South African Social Attitudes survey found that only 48% South Africans were happy with democracy. Pooe believes there is a declining satisfaction with liberal democracy.
According to political analyst Dr Thandeka Dlamini, the blame should be shared. “Democracy in South Africa is a political achievement, but without economic transformation, it was never going to be enough,” she says. “The country has followed a neoliberal economic model that prioritises markets and profits, often at the expense of addressing deep-rooted inequalities. Democracy promised the people freedom, but it allowed capitalism to run rampant. The result is a divided society where the elite – both black and white – prosper, while the rest fight over scraps.”
Her words are echoed by migrant advocate and activist Musa Nkosi, who points out the irony in South Africa’s xenophobia. “Johannesburg was built on the backs of migrant labour – first from the rural parts of South Africa, and later from all over Africa,” Nkosi says. “To say that migrants are now the problem is not only false, but deeply hypocritical. The problem is the system that has failed to provide for everyone.”
A fresh wave of xenophobic tension now threatens to tear apart the fragile social fabric of South Africa’s largest city. Recently, in Soweto’s Naledi township, a tragic incident underscored how deeply these divides run. Five children, aged between 6 and 7, lost their lives after allegedly consuming snacks purchased from a local spaza shop. As news spread that the shop was operated by foreign nationals, rage and grief morphed into violence, reigniting simmering anti-immigrant sentiments.
“We’ve been complaining for a long time about the conditions in these shops,” says Zandile Tshabalala, a Naledi resident. “But no one listens. Now, children are dead. These foreign shops come here, sell us expired goods, and no one cares until something like this happens.”
For many people, the presence of foreign-owned spaza shops is symbolic of their broader economic exclusion. Many South Africans feel that migrants have cornered the informal retail market, while locals struggle to find jobs or open their own businesses. The economic frustration, coupled with poor regulation and governance, has turned foreign nationals into easy targets for displaced anger.
Amid the escalating crisis, the South African department of labour has weighed in, taking a balanced stance. The department has expressed concerns over the conditions in which many spaza shops operate, calling for stricter compliance with labour and health regulations. However, it has also emphasised that the violence and destruction of foreign-owned businesses are unlawful and counterproductive.
The tragedy in Naledi is a stark reminder of the fragile state of democracy in Johannesburg. Although the city has politically transformed over the past 30 years, it remains economically divided. Democracy in Johannesburg has undeniably brought political freedom, but it has failed to dismantle the economic disparities that plague its residents. The rise of anti-immigrant sentiments is an unfortunate byproduct of this failure, with migrants often bearing the brunt of frustration in a system that seems rigged against the poor.
FEATURE IMAGE: Immigrants residing in the informal settlement of Hillbrow gathered together. Photo: Sanele Sithetho
The face of tourism has undergone a makeover since the dawn of democracy some 30 years ago, but whether it is a big enough change remains to be seen.
Stepping off a monstrously sized and noisy aeroplane at Johannesburg’s OR Tambo International Airport, warm air blows into your face. Your eyes squint while trying to adjust to the blinding sunlight. There is an immediate atmosphere of hustle and bustle, and you can hear several different languages being spoken around you.
Touring the city, you make your first stop at the Johannesburg Zoo for a glimpse of the Big Five up close and personal. A stroll around the Botanical Gardens leaves you parched, so you find yourself on Vilakazi Street for some authentic South African food and beverages. Feeling adventurous, you abseil down the Soweto Towers and ride a bicycle through the Johannesburg central business district and its arty Maboneng Precinct.
You have an early flight out tomorrow morning, but there is still so much left to uncover; so much more still to experience.
However, looking down at the skyscrapers from your tiny aeroplane window, you realise something: if you had visited Johannesburg 30 years ago, the city would still be bustling with tourism, but you would view all the attractions through the eyes of a fractured society.
The Soweto Towers are the peak of adventure tourism in Johannesburg, with the tiny bridge offering a unique bungee jumping experience to locals or internationals. Photo: Victoria Hill
Contextualising tourism: More than 30 years in the making
Tourism has existed for centuries, even if it constantly redefines itself. Tourism did not become a concept only when trains, boats, cars or aeroplanes were invented. People have been moving from one place to another for different reasons for as long as mankind has inhabited the Earth, which is one early definition of tourism.
Tourism is different from expeditionism in the sense that tourists follow set paths or visit already discovered areas. Tourism can thus be for business, sports, medical, leisure, cultural or religious purposes.
Geoffrey Wall and John Towner say the history of tourism encompasses three themes: tourism in the ancient and medieval worlds, the Grand Tour era of the 17th and 18th centuries, and the growth of spas and seaside resorts.
These themes have some factors in common, mainly that individuals who participated in these kinds of tourism were powerful and wealthy.
Until 1994, tourism in South Africa had these two commonalities as well. Only people of an upper-class, white status could indulge in movement from one place to another. Black individuals were issued with a dompas: an internal passport that restricted their movement on foot. Thus, they could not indulge in free travel around a city like Johannesburg, never mind for leisure to a seaside resort.
This is what led to the White Paper of 1996, which described “diversity [as] where the country’s tourism attraction lies” and stated that the end of apartheid “opened the country’s tourism potential to the rest of the world and, indeed, to the previously neglected groups in society”.
Yet, tourism only really redefined itself in later years. Black people were now granted human rights, but they could not exercise in these rights until they were given a platform to practise them.
Itumeleng Rabotapi, director of strategic management, monitoring and evaluation at the department of tourism, says: “The above advantages notwithstanding, South Africa has not been able to realise its full potential in tourism. As such, the contribution of tourism to employment, small business development, income and foreign-exchange earnings has been limited.”
The White Paper says: “Had its history been different, South Africa would probably have been one of the most-visited places in the world.”
Johannesburg is seen as a microcosm of South Africa in this report, which investigates whether touring the city has changed since democratisation or if it will take 30 more years to master.
State of tourism pre-1994
If you went back in time to revisit apartheid South Africa, you would find a vastly different City of Johannesburg than the one to which you are accustomed.
A tourist in South Africa was typically a white, wealthy, powerful individual or family. To take part in tourism activities pre-1994, academic IB Mkhize explains that a person needed to have disposable income, leisure time, means of transport, freedom of movement, access to facilities and destinations to visit. The apartheid regime deprived all South Africans, except white people, of these things.
Jane Skipsey, a former hotel general manager and guesthouse owner, says: “The hotel industry was very glamorous in the 1980s, with lots of glitz. The five-star Carlton Hotel [now closed] in downtown Johannesburg was buzzing with international guests.”
The abandoned Carlton Hotel stands tall as a landmark of Johannesburg’s skyline despite no longer having glitz and glamour as in pre-1994. Photo: Victoria HillIn comparison to the internationally renowned Carlton Hotel, a small guesthouse in Yeoville offers rooms starting from R70 for one hour. Photo: Victoria Hill
Academic Christian Rogerson says the crisis tourism experienced until 2010 has roots in the policies of apartheid. He places emphasis on the Soweto Uprising of 1976 and the declaration of a state of emergency in the 1980s, which led to South Africa being politically isolated from the rest of the world.
However, despite this, Skipsey says, “Business still had to be conducted and holidays were still taken. There were not that many prominent hotel groups at the time and Southern Sun dominated the market, with business and leisure hotels aplenty.”
Justyn Spinner, managing director of Hello Lifestyle Magazine (formerly Hello Joburg, Hello Cape Town, Hello Durban and Hello Pretoria), says that in the 1980s, when his father pioneered the company, “There were no reliable sources of lifestyle and entertainment content.”
This is what inspired Spinner senior to create a guidebook-style publication featuring lifestyle and attraction spots in Johannesburg. It was targeted at people who had the freedom of movement and choice to partake in leisure activities.
Christo Nicolopoulos, a restaurateur in Johannesburg, says that pre-1994, “The process of opening a restaurant was less bureaucratic.” Nicolopoulos opened many high-end restaurants and he was also involved in “black eating houses… and opened the first eating house with proper plates and knives and forks in Kempton Park”.
“Black eating houses”, or restaurants for black people, show the depth of apartheid segregation in the tourism sector. Black people were not granted access to mainstream tourism activities and were often left undignified and underprivileged in what they could pursue for leisure.
Although Johannesburg was a world-class city with beautiful hotels and restaurants that international businesspeople or tourists would travel to see, its status was maintained on the foundation of apartheid.
State of tourism post-1994
The numbers say South Africa’s tourism sector has been on the mend since 1994. With international sanctions lifted, and the eyes of the world on South Africa’s new democratic state, tourism experienced a boom.
The inception of South African Tourism also helped to rebrand the country and manage its reputation. The body was instituted with the hope of allowing historically disadvantaged South Africans to benefit from the sector.
Rogerson says, “Domestic rather than international tourism is the backbone of the South African tourism economy. While the major component is accounted for by white South Africans, steady growth is occurring in the black tourism sector.”
The tourism industry is more diverse now in terms of ownership and clientele. The introduction of small to medium-sized enterprises and the department of tourism’s enterprise development and transformation programme allowed locally made products and services to enter the tourism market.
One example is the Yeoville Dinner Club, pioneered by Sanza Sandile. For Sandile, who grew up in apartheid Soweto, this dinner club “has become a vision and a direction of [his] childhood dream”. After moving to Yeoville at the dawn of democracy, he wanted to redefine what was once called “a derogatory shebeen in [his] grandmother’s day”.
Sandile’s dinner club “is about celebrating this piece of history through food socials”. The dinner club has “enjoyed a whole mix of international guests and real local foodies from a slightly higher LSM [Living Standards Measure]”.
Locals often describe Yeoville – and Hillbrow – as the geographical centres of deterioration and crime. However, Sandile says his patrons view the now “accidental pan-African suburb” as “one of the most popular cultural and topical spaces in Johannesburg”.
Despite being described as the cultural heartbeat of Johannesburg, Rocky Street in Yeoville also represents the decay of infrastructure in the tourism sector post-1994. Photo: Victoria Hill
Nicolopoulos says black economic empowerment policies created a group of black diners, colloquially known as “Black Diamonds”, who enjoy splurging on champagne and cognac on occasion.
A tourist of colour who often frequents the streets of Johannesburg is 21-year-old Uyanda Tyusha. After growing up in Johannesburg, Tyusha moved to Stellenbosch to finish his tertiary education.
He says: “Having previously lived in Johannesburg, I often travel back to visit friends and family… I mostly find myself going out for something to eat, either lunch or dinner… I also go to attend musical festivals or concerts… I am interested in.”
As a student on a tight budget, Tyusha dreams of “visiting the lesser-travelled areas in the country and discover[ing] more” in years to come.
Being a Born Free, Tyusha “can’t image having restrictions on the sort of travelling that [he] does”. He says if had been born during apartheid he “would most likely be restricted to movement within [or] between the townships”. There would be no chance of him visiting an establishment like the Yeoville Dinner Club.
At the National Job Summit in 1998, tourism was recognised as “the sector which had the greatest potential for reducing unemployment in the country”, Rogerson says. This potential was envisaged as manifesting through community-based initiatives and township, rural and cultural tourism.
Tourism in Johannesburg now has an economic, social, political, cultural and educational value. In 2024, the city has endless tourist attractions, most either born from apartheid, in remembrance of apartheid and the people who lived under it, or an attempt to advantage previously disadvantaged people.
Tourism as a a socioeconomic sector
According to the 1996 White Paper, South Africa relies on tourism to increase the rate of employment, promote equality in all aspects of society, and contribute to the overall gross domestic product (GDP) and investment in the country’s economy.
South African Tourism, the marketing arm of the department of tourism, says tourism promotes “the sustainable economic and social empowerment of all South Africans”. Tourism is a multi-sectoral industry, which means its growth allows multiple sectors to grow too and for more jobs to be created.
The White Paper found that tourism contributed 2% to the GDP in 1994, which increased to 4% in 1995. In 2024, Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) says tourism contributes an estimated 8.8% to the GDP. In 30 years, tourism has more than doubled its contribution to the economy.
Spinner says “we should see the tourism industry as a major contributor to our GDP”, due to its diverse offerings and the welcoming culture of our country to international visitors.
There were an estimated 70,000 working in the sector in 1994 and 1.7 million in 2024. Globally, one in every nine jobs is in the tourism sector, which is about 10.7% of the global workforce.
Skipsey says there is still a massive educational divide that limits equality in the tourism sector’s workforce. The majority of management positions were previously held by white people and unskilled positions were given to people of colour.
“This started to change with employment equity, brought about by the new government post-1994,” Skipsey says. “There are still hurdles. Some black South Africans are assigned jobs for which they are not qualified and this can end up messy.”
Rogerson estimates that 50,000 international tourists visited South Africa in 1986. When 1994 rolled around, the White Paper estimates South Africa welcomed 4.48 million international tourists. Stats SA estimates this number to be 10.7 million in 2024.
Stats SA says tourism is set to grow 7.6% annually over the next decade. This is above the overall economic growth rate of 1.8%.
To residents of Johannesburg, this might come as a shock. The city is not seen as glamorous by its inhabitants, but rather as deteriorating by the second.
Restaurateur Nicolopoulos says, “our economic hub, Johannesburg, is avoided by tourists”, due to the “lack of law and order, corruption and high levels of crime”. The city has simply become “a transit port of entry for Cape Town and the Kruger National Park”.
Overall, the department of tourism’s Rabotapi says tourism is “well-positioned to link under-developed regions with the developed ones as it transcends spatial and geographic boundaries”.
Tourism has a unique ability to promote and maintain harmony on the premise of a shared love for one’s country.
A peek into the next 30 years
Although tourism is classed as a leading socioeconomic sector in today’s South Africa, it still has unlocked potential.
Rabotapi says: “Growth of tourism to and within South Africa requires the portfolio to provide an enabling environment.”
This includes improving tourism assets and infrastructure, ensuring tourism safety and access to basic services, and developing a culture of travel among South Africans so the sector is supported domestically.
Throughout South Africa’s 1.27 million square kilometres, Johannesburg’s province of Gauteng takes up a mere 18,000. Yet, it has made significant strides in transforming the tourism sector during the 30 years of democracy.
Touring the city was once a privilege; now, doing so is a reminder of what humanity went through to be alive today.
International tourists are entranced by a tour guide at Constitution Hill, where they soak up the suffering of wrongfully incarcerated individuals in the apartheid era. Photo: Victoria Hill
Just metres away stands a school tour at Constitution Hill, creating a stark contrast between the domestic and international groups. These local visitors are here for an educational purpose that provides insight into their city’s history. Photo: Victoria Hill
A group of Zulu dancers entertain the international tourists on Vilakazi Street with a cultural display of song and dance whilst cameras were at the ready.
On a pavement in Vilakazi Street, local artists sell their crafts to all visitors. South Africa needs more of this domestic tourism where talent becomes a livelihood. Photo: Victoria Hill
International tourists poured onto the Soweto Hop On & Hop Off bus after visiting Mandela’s House, and were easy to spot in their red contraption. Photo: Victoria Hill
Locals commemorate those who died for their country by visiting the South African National Museum of Military History, and marvel at what it would have been like back in the day. Photo: Victoria Hill
International tourists photographing the infamous Hector Pieterson Memorial in Orlando West had cameras swinging from their necks in their classic dress of shorts and t-shirts. Photo: Victoria Hill
Where international tourists would visit the Kruger National Park, locals in Johannesburg simply visit the metropolitan zoo to spend a day in the sun with roaring lions and grazing rhinos. Photo: Victoria Hill
The infamous open-top City Sightseeing Bus is visible most days in Johannesburg. When locals are hard at work, internationals sit atop the red double-decker and view the city in its holistic form. Photo: Victoria Hill
Residents of Johannesburg call the Maboneng Precinct their artistic playground with its vibrant stores, boutique cafes, and entertainment centres that provides locals with opportunities to relax after work or over the weekends. Photo: Victoria Hill
FEATURED IMAGE: Johannesburg is known for the spotting of Jacaranda trees all about its suburbs, and they have become a tourist attraction in Spring time. Photo: Victoria Hill
Nearly 30 years into democracy, the city of gold’s residents face the harsh reality of a broken service delivery system.
Imagine living in a city that was once hailed as the economic titan of Africa but is now subject to the daily indignity of deteriorating infrastructure. Even after 30 years of democratic governance, persistent power cuts, erratic water supplies, roads riddled with potholes, and uncollected garbage have become unfortunate realities for many Johannesburg residents. The aspirational goals of equality, liberty and socioeconomic progress appear increasingly unattainable to some people.
For individuals like Maureen Ncube, this is the hard truth. “We are struggling, we do not have electricity,” Ncube says. “We are stranded in the informal settlements.” In Kanana Extension Four – an informal settlement located northeast of central Johannesburg in Rabie Ridge – Ncube, a mother of eight, lives in a humble home where poor service delivery makes it challenging for her to manage her daily tasks. Her home – built from discarded materials and sheets of corrugated iron – sits just a few feet away from a stream of sewage.
It’s a typical Saturday morning in the settlement, alive with the sounds and colours of township life. The scene is both vibrant and unsettling. Outside Ncube’s home, the stench of sewage is overpowering: a mix of decaying waste, stagnant water and rotting refuse, with dead rats occasionally floating by. The communal tap stands right next to the sewage, forcing residents to fetch water while the smell lingers heavily in the air. Children run around barefoot, oblivious to the health risks that lie in the murky water they splash through.
Residents are left in the dark on certain days when the electricity is totally cut off. In addition, they must frequently go without water on days when the supply runs out due to leaking communal taps. Like millions of other Jo’burg residents, Ncube and her children rely on these basic services to survive. With every dry tap, power outage and pile of uncollected garbage, she is reminded of just how much Johannesburg’s service delivery has failed its people.
Numerous locals such as Ncube face a daily dilemma: either deal with water scarcity or spend money on expensive private water supplies. Their physical health is negatively affected by the unreliability of critical services, and their everyday lives are overshadowed by the emotional toll of living in uncertainty. As they negotiate a system that has repeatedly let them down, families are left anxious by the constant fear of upcoming power outages or water problems.
The establishment of municipal state-owned entities
The Municipal Systems Act gave rise to organisations like City Power and Johannesburg Water in the early 2000s. Section 73(1)(c) of the Act emphasises that municipalities must ensure “universal access to essential services that are affordable to all” and move progressively toward “the provision of basic services to all our people, specifically the poor and disadvantaged”. The Act saw Johannesburg Water and City Power as essential providers of reliable and reasonably priced services that supported the constitutional goal of fostering equitable development.
City Power and Johannesburg Water were expected to adhere to the Act’s mandates for financial sustainability and community engagement. Section 73(2)(b) requires that municipalities provide services “in a financially and environmentally sustainable manner”. Despite their mandates to offer affordable services, City Power and Johannesburg Water have encountered both financial and operational challenges. Mismanagement and rising expenses have made it more difficult for these organisations to achieve their initial objectives.
A Kanana resident tries to navigate through the uncollected waste. Picture: Rivaldo Jantjies.
What went wrong?
City Power and Johannesburg Water were established to improve service delivery in Johannesburg; however, they have not met their objectives. The Municipal Systems Act, section 95(c), mandates municipalities to maintain sound financial management to ensure sustainable services. However, these state-owned entities have been embroiled in corruption and mismanagement.
An August City Press article reported that auditor-general Tsakani Maluleke’s 2022-23 report raised significant concerns about financial mismanagement in the City of Johannesburg. The City retained its previous year’s unqualified audit opinion with findings, yet issues of poor financial management persisted, according to City Press. In addition, a July Mail & Guardian report highlighted allegations that City Power and Pikitup have been heavily tainted by corruption and political interference. Prominent ANC leaders are accused of compromising public services by capturing the city-owned companies for their own benefit. Investigations into the entities are under way for anomalies in tenders that led to poor service delivery. Patronage networks have allegedly been strengthened by these actions, which are believed to have enriched certain politicians at the expense of taxpayers and the construction of vital infrastructure.
Section 73(2)(c) of the Municipal Systems Act requires services to be financially and environmentally sustainable, but the deteriorating infrastructure suggests otherwise. For instance, Coronationville has faced weeks without water, leading to protests as frustrated residents demand their basic rights. A recent Daily Maverick report found that Coronationville depends on the Hursthill 1 Reservoir, which is facing severe operational challenges and structural decay, resulting in major water losses. Similar issues plague Kanana, where residents endure recurring blackouts and broken water-supply systems, despite the initial goal outlined by these state-owned entities to provide equitable service delivery. The common thread for these failures is a lack of transparency and accountability.
Political analyst Ebrahim Harvey argues that service-delivery issues in Johannesburg stem from external pressures placed on local leadership. According to Harvey, the World Bank played a role in pushing ANC councillors and officials toward restructuring municipal services in the early ’90s. He adds, “The World Bank is the place that put pressure on the ANC councilors and leadership to go the route to collapse all the services in the municipalities.” The foundation for future initiatives and economic changes in South Africa was established by the World Bank as early as the 1990s. To prepare South African officials for the Bank’s possible participation in local projects, should an interim government request this, the Bank held policy seminars and capacity-building workshops, as well as conducting informal economic research.
The consequences for Johannesburg residents
Two Kanana residents, Moitheri Tau and Tembi Elizabeth Mokwele, publicly voice their dissatisfaction and disenchantment with the city’s inadequate services.
Tau, who has lived in the area since 1993, describes a daily struggle for electricity and safety. She explains that residents connect power cables to a nearby transformer. “We don’t have electricity and the service delivery is poor. We connected ourselves illegally after City Power disconnected us,” she admits, pointing out the dangers of living without basic services. “Our children use candlelight to study, but when they fall asleep, the candles set the shacks on fire. One burning shack can cause 14 more to catch fire,” she says.
Mokwele emphasises the unsanitary conditions in which they live. “There’s dirty water everywhere and it makes our children sick,” she says, sitting outside her home. She is enjoying a lively conversation with her neighbors, laughing and cracking jokes, despite the dire situation. Mokwele speaks of her frustration with the government’s repeated promises during election cycles, only for these promises to be forgotten afterwards. “We vote and every time they promise us better living conditions, but nothing happens,” she says.
Both Tau and Mokwele, like many other residents, are desperate for change, pleading for electricity, RDP housing and basic services to ensure their safety and dignity.
The frustration with Johannesburg Water and City Power is not limited to informal settlements, but extends across the city. On Johannesburg Water’s X page, complaints are rampant. One resident expressed outrage after being left without water for days, saying, “We have no water for two days! You just shut off the water without any plan. It’s ridiculous and unacceptable.” Another user echoed this sentiment, frustrated by the repeated failures: “You clearly don’t serve Jo’burg… Why is it taking so long? Why can you never get it fixed correctly the first time?”
The alarming decay of Johannesburg’s water infrastructure is driving the city toward a potential ‘Day Zero’. This raises serious concerns about management and upkeep. In June News24 reported that Rand Water’s maintenance problems make it difficult for Johannesburg Water to satisfy demand, which leads to frequent supply interruptions. The prolonged timescale for these upgrades raises concerns, even while efforts are being made to enhance and modernise water infrastructure to mitigate these problems. Why has it taken so long to fix and improve vital water infrastructure that millions of people depend on every day after more than 30 years of democracy?
Similarly, the City Power X page is filled with complaints from residents affected by constant power outages. One exasperated user shared their frustration, saying, “Every week it’s the same story… whenever Kanana has no power, we are also affected – this is ridiculous! Matriculants are writing exams, how are they supposed to study?” Another commenter highlighted the effect on their livelihood: “Getting fired for always making the same electricity excuse. Working from home is a nightmare.” These posts reflect the widespread discontent across Johannesburg, as both water and electricity services fail to meet residents’ most basic needs.
Kanana household’s illegal electricity connections hang over an informal pathway. Picture: Rivaldo Jantjies
Rising frustration and economic effects
In vulnerable communities like Kanana, the breakdown of service delivery in Johannesburg has aggravated socioeconomic disparities. Dr Morné Oosthuizen, chief research officer at the Development Policy Research Unit of the University of Cape Town, explains that whereas wealthier households can adapt by installing solar panels or purchasing bottled water, poorer households are left with no such alternatives. “Poor households are much more constrained than better-off households in their ability to insulate themselves from poor service delivery,” Oosthuizen notes. This inability to access basic services not only deepens inequality, but also compromises efforts to reduce multidimensional poverty. As Oosthuizen puts it: “Basic services typically serve to reduce inequalities – if you look at multidimensional poverty [and] inequality measures, which include these kinds of services, you will see relatively low rates of multidimensional poverty and lower inequality levels.”
The collapse of infrastructure also raises operating costs for businesses. Oosthuizen says, “There is real potential for this phenomenon to raise costs for employers – for example, they need to install solar panels, or they need to repair vehicles more frequently because of higher wear and tear – putting pressure on their ability to remain competitive.” This added burden weakens local economies, further limiting employment opportunities and driving up costs for businesses already struggling to cope with unreliable services.
In the long term, Johannesburg’s infrastructure problems are discouraging business investment and pushing skilled labour out of the city. The South African Chamber of Commerce and Industry business confidence index for July 2024 reflects this sentiment, showing only a marginal improvement of 1.8 index points from the previous year – a gain too modest to counteract the ongoing concerns about local infrastructure and utility reliability. Oosthuizen emphasises that service-delivery failures can serve as a “push factor”, driving businesses to relocate. “Where businesses do not need to be located in Johannesburg, poor service delivery encourages businesses to relocate elsewhere,” he says. This potential exodus of both businesses and workers threatens to further erode Johannesburg’s economic stability, affecting not only established companies, but also informal businesses reliant on formal-sector earnings. Oosthuizen says, “This can undermine local economies, also through the impact of a weakened formal sector (and earnings from the formal sector) on the informal sector.”
Ncube and other Johannesburg residents deserve better. The city’s inability to supply basic utilities like safe power and clean water is a catastrophe that has to be addressed immediately. It’s time to invest in this city’s future and end the cycle of neglect.
Residents of Kanana share their daily struggles of service delivery. Video: Rivaldo Jantjies
FEATURED IMAGE: A visual representation of a dripping communial tap in Kanana. Photo: Rivaldo Jantjies.
Education breeds success, but for some Born Frees to grasp their promised freedom, parents have to make the difficult decision of placing them in schools outside the township – with or without the government’s help in getting them there.
The born-free generation
It is 6am, on a cold, dark morning in the middle of an average 2008 winter. The sun has not yet risen in the cosy three-bedroom Segoale household, yet it is warmed by the steam of multiple drawn baths. My slow movements in waking up are countered by the family of four’s frantic yet seemingly choreographed dance around the house: securing uniforms, jackets and ties in a flurry of green and red, the colours of our primary school. A 10-year-old Tumi Segoale, who had been awake for at least an hour, sits on the couch and offers me a warm bowl of cereal while I chase the sleep from my eyes. “Dude, when do you sleep?” I ask him as I sit down, exhausted from the rush. “I usually use the drive to school to catch up. You get used to it. But we let you sleep in a bit.”
Itumeleng ‘Tumi’ Segoale starting his accounting articles in 2021. Photo: Nancy Segoale/Supplied
Tumi Segoale’s story, navigating the opportunities available to him as a Born Free, reflects the truth President Cyril Ramaphosa attempted to allude to in his story of Tintswalo. It is not a tale of fantasy, but real struggle – and, more importantly, effort – to get into the desired middle class, which many people often find to be a mirage.
The born-free generation are democracy’s children: those “born without the burden of apartheid”, either after 1990, the year Nelson Mandela was released from prison, or post-1994, the year of the first democratic election. Supposedly, Born Frees are able to enjoy a standard of living and a recovering economy withheld from their parents.
The latest Quarterly Labour Force Survey from Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) shows that unemployment among people with less than a matric is 30% higher than among those who have graduated from a tertiary institution. Born Frees, therefore, need to access education before they can access this economic advantage.
Itumeleng “Tumi” Segoale was born in 1998 at the Johannesburg Hospital. He has stayed in the same house in Jabulani, Soweto for as long as he can remember. “Listening to my parents talk about how they grew up and how tough it was… it dawned on me just how flippin’ lucky we are that we were born at the right time,” he says.
Children’s Geographies published a study exploring the relationship between school choice and geography in Soweto. As a result of the apartheid-era Bantu Education Act, the educational policy of schools and the resources devoted to the specific institutions were wholly determined along racial lines.
What this created, even in the democratic era, is a legacy of well-performing, well-resourced schools typically found in “white” areas. “It has left behind a persistent set of geographically defined inequalities in educational infrastructure and resources,” the study states. According to South African Policy, a learner is considered to attend a “local” school if they travel a maximum of 3km from their home. The study notes that about a third of children between1997 and 2003 travelled more than 3km to school, with about 20% travelling more than 10km.
Tumi Mashiane, the executive manager’s assistant of the Southern African Bus Operators Association, contextualises the transport system before 1994. “Pre-democracy, the transport system was fragmented, largely serving affluent areas while neglecting townships. Infrastructure was underfunded and often inadequate.”
In 1996, the national government released the White Paper on National Transport Policy in an attempt to address these disparities. Former minister of transport Sindisiwe Chikunga reiterated its goal in June 2024, saying the White Paper “articulated a mission that promoted the use of public transport over private transport…. This system would be designed in such a way as to improve levels of accessibility for all.” The National Land Transport Strategic Framework outlined the national land transport strategy. It also established key performance indicators (KPI) to track the progress of policies and strategic initiatives – KPIs that the government continues to struggle to meet. So by 2004, when considering which school to place their child in, if Tumi’s parents aimed to “escape” the legacy of apartheid, they needed to send him to a school with better resources, outside Soweto. They were not the only parents in Soweto to make this decision. In 1996, the Mail & Guardian reported that tens of thousands of parents in Soweto chose to send their children to schools in wealthier suburbs.travelling more than 10km.
2004 to 2011: Primary school begins
Bedfordview is a quiet suburb in eastern Johannesburg. Some 14,000 people populate the calm streets, with two-thirds of them being white and English-speaking. Tumi attended Bedfordview Primary School (BPS), one of the few public schools in the suburb. The well-known school is surrounded by a bright, green fence, providing just enough space to see the six-lane swimming pool and newly built classrooms glimmering in the sunlight. The opposite side of the school hosts the general pick-up and drop-off area. This is well-paved with a gorgeous exposed brick display, sponsored, in part, by the students and parents through a buy-a-brick campaign. The school takes advantage of its location in a suburb where the average cost of a property is just shy of R3-million. Tumi’s parents worked near the school and it became the natural choice to send their son there.
Reflecting on this decision, he tells me, “There’s always a weird conception about… going to school in the hood that I’ve seen and it’s not good.” Tumi felt he attended a school that forced him to take his education seriously, an experience his friends attending local schools did not receive. In 2010, Soweto had 60 underperforming schools; other townships, such as Sharpeville, Tembisa and Mamelodi, recorded only 10 each. Then MEC of education Barbara Creecy hosted a summit to address the extensive rate of underperforming schools in Soweto compared to other townships. Although many parents were now placing their children in wealthier, “white” schools, resources were not necessarily committed to match this increase in mobility.
With apartheid’s legacy of confining black people outside urban centres, public transport infrastructure could not adequately address urban development in overpopulated, under-resourced areas like Soweto. “We have a new tendency called the urban sprawl, meaning areas coming into existence not far outside our urban centres of work and or residence,” says Lunga Jacobs, a lecturer and researcher in the Department of Transport at the University of Johannesburg (UJ).
One KPI set out in the 1996 White Paper was an average travel time to work of less than an hour. Every morning, during peak traffic, Tumi would spend up to an hour-and-a-half on the road to get to school. The government had 10 years to make schooling more accessible for students like Tumi, who attended BPS the year after this milestone was meant to be achieved. At this time, taxis from Soweto dropped their passengers off at the Eastgate Mall taxi rank, a 35-minute walk to the school. Fortunately, Tumi attended school near his parents’ work and they could drive him. Unfortunately, due to a budget shortfall in the billions, expired bus contracts from 1997 were renewed on a short-term basis, ranging from month-to-month to three years. Short contracts and underfunding required prioritising the maintenance of the ageing bus fleet, preventing conductors from adding additional routes to meet passenger demands. When contracts were offered, none were awarded. Therefore, any bus routes entering Bedfordview (and similar areas) did not travel deep enough into the suburb to reach Tumi’s school. “[W]e in transport… have a term called ‘sunk cost’… meaning it’s costs you forgo for the benefits you will reap on the infrastructure over the long term,” Jacobs says. But without such outlay, bus owners are unable to effectively plan for the future of urban development.
A rea vaya bus in a state of disrepair. Photo: Thato Gololo
2012 to 2016: Imperfect progress
“In high school it got even worse. At Jeppe it was more strict that I be at school [on time]. So [… we] became a lot more [disciplined]. [W]e needed to be ready to leave the house at six…” Tumi says. He is not alone. Stats SA found that almost 30% of students in 2013 had to leave home between 6am and 7am to make it to school on time. “Why didn’t you use other methods [of transport]?” I ask. “[Because I’m] living next to actual thieves,” he responds.
Safety is a concern surrounding any method of public transport, whether rail, bus or taxi. “I was so terrified that once I had a phone, if it got stolen, my parents just wouldn’t have the cash to buy it for me,” Tumi says. Stats SA’s National Household Travel Survey continuously emphasises this same sentiment. The 2013 survey, specifically, demonstrated that households had to wait even longer to access public transport than previously, with their journey times increasing. This lack of reliability, combined with safety concerns, likely contributed to the increase in private vehicles on the road, directly contradicting the government’s KPI of decreasing private-vehicle use. More than two-thirds of people in the country now use taxis as a means of transport, but the taxi sector is a notoriously difficult industry for the government to regulate. Although taxis are an affordable method of transport, the industry is marred by ‘intimidation, lawlessness [and a] lack of vehicle safety protocols’. A study on transport economics reflected on taxis’ increasing market share, saying that, should other means of transport not be developed, “The country will soon become entirely dependent on the informal minibus taxi industry.” A haunting warning of what was to come.
2016 to 2021: Independence comes at a cost
Tumi’s parents reflect differently on those same formative years. For them, their mode of transport was less about convenience and more about the money they saved by travelling together as a family. The National Household Travel Survey shows the proportion of income spent on transport has been increasing. In 2020, more than 30% of households spent more than 10% of their income on public transport. Another KPI not met.
The taxi industry, with its increasing market share in transport (almost 90% of the country at this point), is not subsidised by the government in the same way as the train and bus systems. Olga Mashilo, the director of Boleng Bontle Consultants, which specialises in transport and logistics research, says that a major contributor to the expense of transport is the cost of fuel. “We’re putting too much [in]to the fuel levy and there is no return on investment when you look at the infrastructure,” she says.
Nevertheless, craving independence, and to avoid that early morning struggle his parents still experience, Tumi began to actively explore his options during university. When he started at UJ, he discovered a web of transport allowing him to arrive at school at his leisure. Going to UJ’s Soweto campus allowed him to take a shuttle directly to the main campus. After that it was a simple Rea Vaya bus to anywhere else in the city. This is a path that many students in Soweto follow.
Near the end of Tumi’s primary school days, the City of Johannesburg introduced the Rea Vaya bus system, in preparation for the 2010 football World Cup. Its large red buses were reminiscent of the Metro bus system they were introduced to replace. With many abandoned bus stations scattered throughout the city – some of them complete, but lacking the staff and accompanying buses that populate the operational stations – many passengers pack the taxi ranks to travel home. Although the Rea Vaya system remains incomplete, it carries Tumi and many others like him from Soweto to and through Johannesburg for as little as R10 – a price possible only due to government subsidisation.
The Bellevue Rea Vaya station. Like many other incomplete stations, there is 24/7 security to ensure the structure is not looted. But this station is unique in that the surrounding traffic lights also do not work. Photo: Thato GololoThe Park Station Extension Rea Vaya station on the corner of Rissik and Wolmarans streets. Construction began in 2021 and continues till today with workers still assembling the hand rails. Photo: Thato Gololo
The future awaits – if you can drive there
Living in the same house in Jabulani – now by himself – Tumi is responsible for his own food, expenses and transport. After spending late nights playing PlayStation, he wakes up early to start his day. His work as a trainee auditor takes him all over the province, occasionally as far as Pretoria. The days spent in the central business district made him realise how traversable a city Johannesburg has become. Despite this, more than half of Johannesburg learners still walk to school, driven only by their resilience.
To survive this city, you’ve got to have thick soles. And, if you can’t drive, walk.
FEATURED IMAGE: The vandalised sign of the Orchards Clinic Rea Vaya station. While the structure was completed in 2020, the actual station has yet to open. Photo by: Thato Gololo
South Africa is proud of its hard-won democracy – and yet some South African citizens would dispense with it, in exchange for better services. Can a state be called a democracy if no one believes in it?
In many nations worldwide, democracy is the only game in town. So entrenched are democratic values in their systems that it seems impossible to consider an alternate form of government.
And yet in South Africa, a relatively young democracy, 72% of citizens would be willing to forgo elections if a non-elected government could provide employment, housing, and security.
Unemployment, followed by crime, electricity, water supply, and corruption are considered the most pressing issues facing South Africans – all of which have been promised to be fixed, but not delivered on for the last thirty years.
People are clearly drawing a link between failing public services and the (dis)functionality of democracy. This is amplified by the fact that, according to the same Afrobarometer survey, 63% of South Africans do not feel close to any political party.
According to these facts, most South Africans do not feel represented by their politicians, nor do they feel served by them. This is unsurprising to anyone who has been paying attention to local politics in the last few years.
In the 2024 national elections, South Africans showed their disillusionment with democracy, with over 11 million voters not bothering to vote and an all-time low voter turnout. These sad statistics point to a decline in the belief that voting makes any difference.
I can’t fault anyone for assuming the democratic system is the issue. One of the supposedly most democratic countries on earth, The United States, consistently silences the voices of its citizens by manipulating voter districts, filibustering the senate to stall popular bills being passed, and allowing Super PACS to fund election campaigns with dark money.
How can anyone be expected to believe in democracy if this is one of its most ‘prime’ examples?
While I’m aware of our democratic government’s numerous failings, I still believe in democracy. This is because what most people understand democracy to be is a watered down, exploited version of its true form.
Many liberal democracies today are bogged down by bureaucratic processes and swayed by the power of corporate interests. These systems, with their dysfunctionality and inequality, should not be looked to as examples of ‘real’ democracy.
According to Helende Landemore, real democracy—democracy that actually delivers on its aims—emerges by bringing popular deliberation and crowd wisdom into the political realm. It only functions through popular participation, and is fashioned by the majority, not from the top-down.
In an unequal country such as South Africa, ‘real’ democracy then faces the hurdle of an all-powerful minority and a disenfranchised majority. However, this sort of democracy does exist on the outer edges of our society, in grassroots organizations and local politics.
In his book, Amakomiti: Grassroots Democracy in South African Shack Settlements, Trevor Ngwane sheds light on the direct, non-hierarchical forms of democracy that exist in shack settlements across the country.
Community groups come together to provide for and defend their members, become self-sufficient, and focus on social development on their own terms. Ngwane calls this “democracy on the margins,” but emphasizes it could come to serve all of us in society.
Would more South Africans believe in democracy if ours functioned differently? I certainly hope so. It is South Africa’s overall lack of development that gives democracy a bad name, not the system itself.
So, while South Africa and other countries continue to call themselves true democracies, it is imperative to remember that some democracies are more equal than others, and that only we should ever hold the power to decide our futures.
FEATURED IMAGE: Ruby Delahunt. Photo: Leon Sadiki.
The true meaning of Worker’s Day goes beyond the public holiday.
As the sun rises over Johannesburg, the morning rush hour begins in earnest. Cars, taxis, and buses fill the roads, and pedestrians hurry to get to work on time. In the chaos, drivers often forget about the rules of the road.
Amidst this hustle and bustle, it is easy to overlook the privilege and ability an individual has to go to work based on their skills and qualifications, not their skin colour or gender.
On Worker’s Day, May 1, we remember the struggles of those who fought for us as South Africans, and others across the world, to work in inclusive, merit-based spaces,
As a student pursuing a career in journalism, I find it important to remember the tireless struggles of workers who fought for fair labour practices, equal rights, and social justice in the workplace.
I am filled with gratitude for pioneers like Emma Mashinini, former trade unionist and political activist, who became active within the African National Congress in 1956 and later founded the South African Commercial, Catering and Allied Workers Union. Or Jay Naidoo, the founding general secretary of the Congress of South African Trade unions, who spearheaded the 1950s worker’s strikes, demanding fair wages, better working conditions, and an end to discrimination.
While Worker’s Day commemorates the struggles and celebrated triumphs of the labour movement, it is a sad irony that many South Africans find themselves outside of the formal workforce. According to the latest data from Statistics South Africa’s Quarterly Labour Force Survey, approximately 1 in every 3 people in South Africa are unemployed, as the unemployment rate stands at 32,1%.
A sketch showing that skills and qualifications know no race or gender. Drawing: Katlego Mtshali
Despite the progress made in securing fair labour and equal opportunities, the reality is that South Africans face significant barriers to entering the workforce, including the lack of education, skills, and access to resources and networks.
As someone who hopes to enter the journalism workforce soon, I fear that my qualifications and skills may not be compensated with a fair salary, that my voice may not be heard, and ultimately, that my contributions may not matter.
Moreover, the journalism field comes with its own set of hurdles such as intimidation, lack of resources and the pursuit of truth in a rapidly changing media landscape.
That is why I have also started a side hustle as a makeup artist- because jobs are not guaranteed, and I want to be prepared. This also means I have to juggle both my schoolwork and longer hours of work if I have more than one client in a day, on weekends.
However, I am also excited about the future of work in South Africa. Our generation has the power to push boundaries, challenge the status quo, and advocate for a better tomorrow. During the #RhodesMustFall and #FeesMustFall protests, our generation proved to be like the generations that fought our collective freedom before democracy, they stood up against injustices and fought for equal rights, access to education and economic opportunities.
This Worker’s Day, I honour the past, celebrate the present, and eagerly anticipate the future-a future built on the foundations of solidarity, equality, and justice for all. I am proud to be part of a generation that will continue to shape the future of work in South Africa, and I am committed to using my skills and experience to make a positive impact.
Not even personal phone calls to Vice-Chancellor Zeblon Vilakazi stopped the screening of the documentary that focuses on the state of India’s democracy under current prime minister.
The screening of India: The Modi Question at Wits on Friday, May 12, was a powerful example of the importance of media freedom and open discussions in exercising democracy.
Difficult conversations about nationalism, police brutality, media freedom and command responsibility – the idea that a commanding officer is responsible for atrocities committed by their subordinates – are very often shied away from in postcolonial contexts.
The Humanities Graduate Centre (HGC) hosted the screening and panel discussion of the two-part documentary about Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi and his relationship with the Muslim minority in the country. It was released by the BBC in January 2023 and subsequently got banned by the Indian government as “anti-Indian propaganda”.
The first part follows Modi’s early political life, extending into his time as chief minister of Gujarat province, when in 2002 deadly violence shook the province, with Muslim populations targeted by extremists following the burning of a train carrying Hindu pilgrims.
Among many accusations that followed was that direct orders from Modi had allowed for the violence to play out – an accusation that Modi was acquitted of by India’s Supreme Court in 2021.
The second part of the documentary follows Modi’s career after the riots, focusing on his re-election as prime minister of the country in 2019 for a second five-year term. This is when he presided over a controversial policy changing the status of the Muslim-majority region of Kashmir and the Citizen Act which revoked the citizenship of many Muslim Indians.
The documentary also covers the ever-increasing suppression of media in the country, with Reporters Without Borders stating that press freedom in the country has declined.
Sociology professor Srila Roy and Mellon Chair in Indian Studies, Professor Dilip Menon, made up the panel at the screening, with more than 30 people from diverse backgrounds in the audience. The discussion began by highlighting the fact that students at New Delhi’s Jamia Millia Islamia university were arrested for hosting a screening not unlike the one that was held at Wits.
The state of India’s democracy came under the spotlight. A group of four individuals in the audience voiced their anger at the BBC during the discussion, labelling the documentary “propaganda” and “hypocritical from colonial Britain” – responses very similar to those made by the Indian government.
Roy rebuked these comments, stating that it was in bad faith to have a debate of “what ifs” when the subject matter was about the loss of human lives during a time of ethnic violence. The real question, she said, was, “Why is there a ban and why are university students being arrested for watching [the documentary]?”
The screening was championed by the director of the HGC, Professor Lorena Núñez Carrasco, following weeks of external pressure from pro-Modi supporters for it not to go ahead. Not even personal phone calls made to Vice-Chancellor Zeblon Vilakazi stopped the screening.
Menon alluded to the possibility of the pressure stemming from not wanting to ruffle any feathers ahead of the Brics summit being held in Durban later this year. He highlighted the contradiction of India being the world’s largest democracy due to the largest population actively taking part in voting, and yet having the documentary being banned where there “should be free, open discussion”.
The full documentary is no longer available on YouTube, with the site saying this was for copyright reasons. Menon suspects the Indian government could have played a role in its removal.
FEATURED IMAGE: Wits hosted a screening of the documentary, India: The Modi Question, which is banned in India. Graphic: Seth Thorne
This captivating South African film, which follows a hostage situation in the country’s capital at the height of apartheid, rattles your emotions and leaves you pleasantly unsettled.
Johannesburg's underground punk rock scene has always been about more than simply music. From the beginning, it's been a site of rebellion against injustice and a community for those who dare to go against the norm. In this episode of We Should Be Writing, Mbali Khumalo takes you into this world, with guests from the […]
