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 a city chasing world-class status, Johannesburg’s alternative youth measure this goal not through politics or wealth, but by how freely the city’s residents can express themselves and live the lives they choose, no matter how unconventional.
On a Saturday night in northern Johannesburg, the faithful gather not in pews but under the pulsing lights and sloped ceilings of the Sognage night club. The room is dark and hot, with the only light illuminating the members of a band called Cape Cross Delusion. A metal riff from the guitarist fills the room like a hymn, and bodies move in rhythm, their arms raised and heads bowed as they headbang to the beat. Around the mosh pit, the crowd is draped mostly in black, donning leather jackets, fishnets, and heavy boots that thud as they stomp their feet. Many of them are adorned with piercings that glint when the light catches their faces, and dark eyeliner that frames their eyes locked onto the stage. Mbali Ntuli (25) will remember that night forever, her first metal concert, which she describes as a kind of baptism. She laughs when she says this but insists that that night felt almost religious. “It felt like church, or like a sanctuary almost,” she says. “You just feel so good, you know. You just feel so bloody good.”
Johannesburg’s leaders have spent decades chasing the dream of making the city “world-class, the phrase a nagging promise in city plans, political speeches, and tourist slogans. This vision is typically built on the idea of what success looks like in other major hubs such as London or New York. But these cities are not just iconic because of their economic prowess. Their status is also founded on their immense cultural capital, which is something built from the streets up, not from the elites down.
Ntuli’s Johannesburg is loud, expressive and unapologetically different. The alternative subcultures in the city ask the question: what if being world-class was about something deeper? So much of South Africa’s history and identity is about freedom. So why not measure the city’s world-class status by the freedom to be yourself – to dress how you want, love who you want, and exist without fear? For those in the city’s alternative scene, that kind of freedom is what truly defines Johannesburg.
Unapologetic and authentic is how Baitseng Mello (20) describes Johannesburg. It’s a city where freedom of expression is enjoyed by young people who choose to live outside the “norm”. Photo: Mbali Khumalo
British punk to Joburg resistance
The label “alternative” means opposing dominant cultural norms. It’s an umbrella term for several subcultures that define themselves as breaking away from what society deems as normal or appropriate. Punk, goth, emo, and sometimes queerness are the core alternative archetypes that stand opposed to mainstream ideals of fashion, music, love, and other forms of self-expression..
This rebellious posture has its roots in the punk movements that emerged in 1970s England. The Museum of Youth Culture in the United Kingdom describes punk as a “way of doing”, informing everything “from music through design, fashion, artwork, writing and performance.” It arose from disillusioned British youth who had little faith in their government to address rising inequality, working class exploitation, and labour movements that saw mass strikes and growing unionisation, especially in mining. Young Britons saw punk style, with its distinctive black leather, silver chains, studs, spiky hair and brash makeup, as a way of signalling that they didn’t align with Britain’s social and political conservativism.
Helgard Olwage, bassist for The Burnouts, performs at Rumours Lounge in Strydom Park. Photo: Mbali Khumalo
At the same time, South African youth were going through their own anti-establishment movements with the rise of anti-apartheid student activism, notably punctuated by the 1976 Soweto Uprisings where police killed over 170 students. Amidst this resistance, South Africa’s multi-racial punk subcultures emerged, rebelling against conservative Afrikaner nationalism that sought to dictate both racial and socio-cultural norms. Their main outlet was music. The country’s first multiracial punk band, National Wake, was formed in 1978 in a student commune in downtown Johannesburg. In his article, ‘Punks of the Witwatersrand’, journalist Chris Webb describes the neighbourhoods of Hillbrow, Parktown, and Yeoville as sites of “political organising, multi-racial collaboration, and artistic exploration”. While the punk era of 1970s South Africa didn’t totally mirror its British inspiration in form and style, rebelling against the apartheid government, even just by making music or living together, was very punk.
Listen to a new bonus episode of the We Should Be Writing podcast to discover the little-known world of rebellion and resistance within Johannesburg’s underground punk music scene.
Freedom, worn out loud
In today’s alternative Johannesburg, fashion is the first language of freedom. It’s how authenticity, creativity, queerness and belonging announce themselves without a word.
Baitseng Mello (20) believes self-expression isn’t just about looking different, it’s about refusing to disappear. Sitting at a table outside the Matrix, a small retail hub inside Wits University, she stands out in an all-black outfit, complete with an oversized leather jacket, chunky boots and a silver spiked necklace. She tells the story of her sheltered upbringing in Pretoria. Being the only daughter in her family meant that there were rigid guidelines for self-expression. This has changed dramatically since coming to study in Johannesburg. “Today, I dress how I feel. Sometimes I feel masculine, and whenever I [would] express that through my clothes my dad would ask me: ‘Why are you dressed like that? Are you gay? You’re not a boy.’ Even for family events, he would buy me dresses and skirts so I would look more feminine,” she says.
“It’s crazy that being in Joburg has helped me express my femininity more. Back in Pretoria at home, they tried to suppress me and I hated it,” she says. “When it was being forced on me, I thought, no, I’m going to reject this because you’re forcing it on me.”
Mello says coming to Johannesburg gave her freedom to shed the expectations of femininity that were instilled within her family growing up. She uses her newly-found freedom of expression to experiment with femininity and masculinity in her everyday style. Photo: Mbali Khumalo
Sitting near the library lawns on the university’s East Campus, Joburger Tyreece Garach (21) shares that it was her mother’s support that empowered her rebellious style. “I appreciate her because I could not imagine being the type of child [where] when I leave the house, I’m wearing a whole different outfit and then I get to the bus stop and take it off.”
Among the throng of students shuffling to class, you simply can’t miss her. Garach’s matching brown crochet tank top and mini skirt are accentuated by fishnet tights and thigh-high leather boots. Black lipliner frames her smile and the geometric pattern inked on her forehead draws you towards her eyebrow and septum piercings. A spiky neo-tribal tattoo covers her back, topping off her edgy look. Her style not only expresses her personality but her queerness too. “The way I dress, it’s to express my sexuality as well. I’m a lesbian. The way I dress may seem to be for the male gaze, but my eye makeup, all these piercings, it tells them to stay away!” she laughs. “It’s for the women. This is the expression of alternative people and for me, alternative people are the gays.”
Style and sexuality intersect, for born and bred Joburger Tyreece Garach (21). For her, alternative fashion signals both her personal style and her sexual identity. Photo: Mbali Khumalo
The risks of being seen
While Johannesburg is largely experienced as an accepting and inclusive city, it isn’t immune to the challenges facing the rest of the country. For alternative women, their self-expression doesn’t shield them from misogyny. In many ways, it heightens their visibility as a target for it.
Garach and her partner, both femme-presenting lesbians, have frequently had their relationship invalidated because of how they present. Men have flirted and pushed for their cell phone numbers, despite the women reiterating that they are queer. “When we go out together, often men don’t take us or our relationship seriously. Everything is so deeply rooted in patriarchy,” she says. “At the same time, in Braam [Braamfontein] specifically, men are a lot less pushy about it. I think that’s because this is such an accepting place. People are very aware of all these alternative people living alternative lifestyles,” she explains.
Garach cheekily describes her style as “edgy, 1980s hoochie mama.” She refuses to shrink herself, choosing to wear as much or as little as she pleases. Photo: Mbali Khumalo
Beyond their relationships, alternative women also use clothing to assert who they are, despite the judgment that follows. “Sometimes before I leave the house, I ask myself, should I tone it down, should I cover up, and the answer is no. I never tone it down,” Ntuli says. “You could walk around wearing a short skirt and you get people calling you a slut. They start calling you names, which is annoying.”
Despite experiencing the heavy metal scene in Johannesburg as a kind of sanctuary, Ntuli knows that the ugliness that exists in the rest of society can bleed into what should be her safe space. “Metal is a male-dominated industry, so the scene can be like that as well. When you go to these gigs you need to make sure you’re in good hands because this is South Arica, after all. I love my community but that doesn’t mean that gender-based violence doesn’t happen with us as well,” she says. Regardless of these risks, she’s not letting them stop her from finding solace in the heavy metal scene. “I tell all my female friends that if they haven’t gone to a metal show, that they need to. It is the best experience. It gives women a space to express their strength and just rebel.”
Johannesburg isn’t perfect. For alternative women, standing out can mean harassment and judgement from society. While this is a lived experience for just about all women, being different can heighten your visibility in unpleasant ways. Photo: Mbali Khumalo
Africa’s alternative youth, beyond Joburg
Unlike many of its African counterparts, Johannesburg is often considered to be more accepting and inclusive. The diversity in the kinds of people that are drawn to the city and make it their own is something unique. For other African youth, their experience of alternative self-expression can be bleak.
Akon Areet (20) knows this first-hand. She is the eldest daughter of South Sudanese parents who fled to Kenya when the Sudanese civil war began in 2023. After a short stay in a refugee camp in Kakuma, the family settled in Eldoret, where they already had a few relatives. Areet’s parents have since moved to the United States to work and send money back to support her and her siblings.
She began experimenting with alternative fashion last year as a way to express herself and her sense of style, which she describes as goth. She has silver piercings on her eyebrows and lips, and her hair is a shaggy pink wolfcut, with the bottom layers dyed grey. Her thick eyeliner accentuates her eyes, making them standout further against the white makeup that covers the rest of her face.
While she feels more authentic than ever, her new identity hasn’t been received warmly. “Kenya is a really conservative place. There’s not really a lot of alternative people here and when you’re different, people will ostracise you,” she shares. A sore spot for Areet is that her self-expression is considered white-washed, especially her piercings. “People tell me that I’m trying to be white because of them, but my piercings are the most African thing about me, in so many ways,” she says. “As Africans, we have a lot of body modifications. We have tattoos, piercings and scarification. I love my piercings because they actually bring me closer to my roots.”
Akon Areet is one of the only alternative people living in her conservative town of Eldoret, Kenya. She finds community online, connecting with other goths within and outside of Africa. Photo: Akon Areet/Instagram
She hasn’t let family pressure stop her, despite sometimes feeling isolated. The alternative scene in Eldoret is virtually non-existent. “There are no goth clubs here. I barely see alternative people. I’ve never met an alternative person from here.”
This is in stark contrast to the sense of community that alternative youth in Johannesburg say they’ve found through their self-expression. “When I started expressing myself, that’s when I found my community, my people,” Mello says of her experience in Johannesburg. “If I kept myself stifled, I wouldn’t have found the other queer and alternative people that are like my family now”.
Freedom is the heart of this city
When contemplating if Johannesburg is a world-class African city, freedom of expression rarely comes to mind. The city’s glaring structural challenges often overshadow the resilience and boldness of its people. But to them, self-expression is a part of what makes living in Johannesburg a world-class experience. “Having a city where acceptance is a big part of the way we live shows we have a mindset of liberation. That’s something really unique to Johannesburg,” Garach says. “I think Joburg is a world-class city simply for that fact that it allows everyone to be themselves. Even if there are people judging in silence, as long as they’re not projecting onto you who they think you should be, who cares!”
This city isn’t perfect nor is it immune to challenges like misogyny and queerphobia that threaten freedom of expression. But even with its imperfections, it gives people the courage to be unapologetically themselves – a truly world-class freedom.
FEATURED IMAGE: For Tyreece Garach (21), Joburg is a city where liberation is a mindset embodied daily by its residents. Photo: Mbali Khumalo.
Africa’s first G20 Summit put youth, fairness and global cooperation at the centre amid grandstanding from a key member.
The 2025 Declaration is stronger than last year’s, adding clear commitments on youth unemployment, food security and critical minerals.
South Africa kept the summit focused despite the United States’ boycott, showing that no single country is bigger than the G20.
Experts and youth leaders say this summit is a turning point, giving Africa a louder voice in global decisions.
Group photograph of world leaders at the G20 summit on 22 November 2025. Photo: Jairus Mmutle/GCIS
The first G20 Summit held on African soil opened with symbolism that felt heavier than just ceremonial. Johannesburg, the “cradle of humanity,” as President Cyril Ramaphosa framed it, hosted a meeting shaped by global fragmentation, a US boycott, and the weight of expectations that Africa would finally speak in its own voice.
The unanimous adoption of a declaration on Saturday, November 22, signals a level of global consensus on pressing matters. Beyond the speeches, the real significance of this summit lies in what the declaration promises, how it differs from past commitments, and how South Africa managed the absence of one of the world’s most powerful nations.
What’s in the declaration?
Compared to Brazil’s in 2024, the 2025 Johannesburg Declaration is far more assertive in addressing long-standing inequalities between the Global North and South. It introduces structural reforms that African states have demanded for decades.
These include deepening international financial architecture reform, expanding multilateral development bank lending capacity, and setting up the first-ever G20 Critical Minerals Framework, which pushes beneficiation and manufacturing in resource-rich developing countries.
The declaration also goes further than previous years on food security through the Ubuntu Approaches, focusing on price volatility and support for smallholder farmers.
The declaration introduces the Nelson Mandela Bay Target, which aims to reduce the number of young people who are not in employment, education or training by 2030.
This target will be supported by new training programmes, more job-creating investments, and digital skills initiatives that the G20 has committed to rolling out for young people.
Rather than simply stating a percentage, this commitment signals that the G20 now recognises young people not in employment, education or training (NEET) as a measurable crisis that requires intentional policy, financing, and monitoring a major shift from previous summits where youth were mentioned only in passing.
It essentially means governments are now expected to treat youth unemployment as a structural problem that must decline meaningfully, not symbolically.
Dismissing the boycotter in chief and the future
For Frank Lekaba, Senior Lecturer at the Wits University, South Africa handled its diplomatic tensions with the US strategically.
“Ramaphosa refused to let the absence dominate the narrative,” he says.
Lekaba repositioned the G20 as larger than any one member. “The message was clear: there’s the G20, and then there are member states. None is bigger than the G20.”
Youth representatives also see this summit as a turning point. Levi Singh, the sherpa of the Y20, says the declaration “contains good context” for addressing youth unemployment, even if gaps remain.
“While it doesn’t prioritise youth issues as strongly as it could, the participation of young people is finally being recognised,” he says.
He praises the South African presidency for modelling a more people-centred, human-focused approach to multilateralism. “It showed that the G20 can be a platform for the Global South. It located Africa’s voice inside the G20.”
With the US absent, some feared the summit would fracture. Instead, South Africa secured unanimous agreement on a declaration that places Africa’s priorities at the centre of global governance discussions.
FEATURED IMAGE: G20 signage outside the media centre at Nasrec. Photo: Likho Mbuka
Dr. Malose Langa’s book has gained critical acclaim for bringing a focus and care to an often-neglected group in society.
Professor Malose Langa’s book highlights the importance of healing and intervention for young black men
Dr. Langa’s work is critical for understanding collective violence and masculinity in post-apartheid South Africa
Safe spaces can be established once we give grace to young men in society and acknowledge all expressions of masculinity
Toxic masculinity, patriarchy and hypermasculinity are some of the popularised phrases that have come to dominate discourse on violence and manhood in South Africa.
The Wits Division of Student Affairs held a Postgraduate Book Club first meeting in April, at Senate Room-East Campus hosted the book Becoming Men: Black Masculinities in a South African Township, authored by Wits academic & Professor of Psychology Dr. Malose Langa.
The book follows thirty-two boys from adolescence into early adulthood, capturing their evolving identities and masculinities amid the pressures of absent fathers, peer pressure, and systemic poverty as they grow up in Alexandra, one of Johannesburg’s most complex and crime-ridden townships.
In the aftermath of the robust discussion at the book club, Wits Vuvuzela looks at the man behind the engaging book.
Dr. Langa has nearly twenty years of experience as a private practice psychologist with a background in psycho-legal work, leveraging his LLB in his research of masculinity, collective violence and abuse. Langa is a board member of Gun Free South Africa and has authored research reports about the Marikana Massacre and the Community Work Programme (CWP) for the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation (CSVR).
Additionally, Langa contributes to various academic and media platforms, including The Conversation and Bhekisisa and, he is an associate researcher at the Society, Work and Development Institute (SWOP). Listen to Langa discuss some of the insights he learned during his study for the book:
Video: Katlego Makhutle
His research focuses on risky behaviours in youth, collective trauma, and developing black masculinities in post-apartheid South Africa. Langa has co-authored The Smoke That Calls, a research report analyzing collective violence and protests in post-apartheid South Africa. Langa has recently been appointed as the lead researcher for a concept paper on positive masculinities for the upcoming G20 Summit 2025, hosted in Johannesburg.
In response to a question about his career highlights, Dr. Langa expresses gratitude over watching the boys choose better life paths, despite their circumstances, noting his pride in wearing a suit designed by one of the boys during an inaugural lecture.
The Sunday Times CNA Literary Award for Non-Fiction winner for 2021 notes that the messages society gives young boys in their early development often shapes large portions of their identities. Langa’s approach is both analytical and compassionate, using psychoanalytic insights to reveal how young men grapple with conflicting models of manhood by often embracing negative behaviours like aggression and risk-taking, while also yearning for gentler, more emotionally intelligent alternatives.
Langa’s work is a critical resource in understanding the complexities of black male youth in South African townships and beyond. His best-selling book is a greater call to action for creating spaces where young men can redefine what it means to be a man.
Dr. Langa briefly describes his experience working with the boys & shares some words of wisdom. Video: Katlego Makhutle
FEATURED IMAGE: Dr. Malose Langa at Wits University’s Postgraduate Book Club – Senate Room Photo: Katlego Makhutle
Frustration and petty arguments were the winners of the day, at summit meant to strengthen democratic practices among the youth.
On the morning of Saturday May 10 2024, a youth summit was hosted by the Ahmed Kathrada Foundation (AKF) in the New Commerce Building at Wits University.
On the cusp of the 2024 elections, this summit aimed to host constructive political discussions between political party representatives about topics relevant to the more than fifty young attendees. However, said discourse quickly devolved into chaos as tempers flared.
The discussion devolved into a frenzy once Economic Freedom Front (EFF) representative, Nyakallo Mokoena derailed proceedings, by arguing that Anele Mda, an independent candidate, should not be given a platform, because she was late to the summit and “did not respect their time”.
This resulted in rage-filled arguments between Mda and the Mokoena, with representatives from the Democratic Alliance and the African National Congress drawn into the fray.
The summit was only able to continue after groups of the audience began to sing in unison, crossing political boundaries in pursuit of a singular goal – to calm the intense situation and get the summit back on track.
The representatives attending the summit, from right to left: Mark Surgeon (Freedom Front Plus), Nyakallo Mokoena (Economic Freedom Fighters), Henry Masuku (BOSA), Nicholas Nyati (Democratic Alliance), and Phathutshedzo Nthulane (ANC). Independent candidate Anele Mda is absent from the photo due to arriving late. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
A question-and-answer session followed these discussions, where grade 11 student, Precious Hadebe, stated that the audience was “not here for [the representatives] to throw shots at each other”. She specifically criticised the EFF for providing “no solutions” and for continuing to “attack other parties”.
Mokoena, again interrupted the summit, arguing that Mda’s tardiness was representative of how the country is running out of time to make necessary changes.
This resulted in another extended chaotic interruption, which resulted in the Build One South Africa (BOSA) representative walking out on the summit during the lunch break.
After walking out, BOSA’s Henry Masuku, told Wits Vuvuzela that although he “appreciate[s]” the opportunity to have these sorts of discussions, he is concerned about the political leaders who “deflect questions” and “don’t have a real plan of action”.
According to a media release from the AKF, this summit aimed to help “develop young leaders” who are politically “active” and “conscious” and understand their role in “strengthening democracy in South Africa”.
Despite the disarray, the AKF did achieve its goal and informed the youth about their pivotal role in South African democracy, but not in the way it intended.
The audience’s ability to quell the chaotic bickering that ensued by standing united in song is indicative of how these issues could be solved by the youth in the future: collaboratively and with a singular goal of helping one another in the face of adversity.
FEATURED IMAGE: EFF member holds face of women in the foreground, as audience floods the stage at chaotic Ahmed Kathrada Foundation youth summit. Photo: Tristan Monzeglio
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.
In a time where coalitions are the new reality for South Africa, will young leaders have the upper hand in next year’s national elections?
If the rollercoaster coalitions at municipal level over the past couple of years are a trailer for 2024’s national scramble, then we are in for a crazy ride with new key players emerging.
The 2024 national election is going to be an interesting one in South African politics – especially for the country’s youth. With an unemployment rate of 63,9% for those aged 15 to 24, and 42,1% for those between ages 25 and 34, things are not looking great for the youth – with some becoming fed up with the status quo.
For the first time in our 29-year democracy, the ruling ANC is largely predicted to receive less than 50% of the vote – however, these statistics fluctuate from poll to poll. This has already been the case across various large metropolitan councils, including Johannesburg, Tshwane and Ekhuruleni, which has seen the frequent formation and breaking up of coalitions, resulting in unstable government.
We are likely to see this play out at a national level in 2024. Some parties, such as the Democratic Alliance and ActionSA, are already scrambling to form coalition pacts regardless of the outcome of the polls that are still 12 months away.
The question this raises is: what will the youth’s role be in coalition politics next year? Of 43 million eligible voters, 18 million are youth, however, only 10 million or so are registered to vote. As history has shown, the turnout rate may be much lower. In addition statistics show that the lower the voter turnout, the higher the percentage of votes will be for the ANC.
This article is not arguing the importance of the youth going out to vote. (Award-winning legal and development practitioner Karabo Mokgonyana did that very well in a Mail & Guardian article.) Instead, it considers a scenario in which the youth turned out in numbers to vote, and the ANC fell below the 50% threshold to form a government.
Witsies cast their votes in the 2016 local government elections at the East Campus Old Mutual Sports Hall voting station. Photo: File
Would young voters vote for a youth-based agenda, and if so, who would be calling the shots in coalitions? The question is relevant as there has been a flurry of new youth-oriented political movements and parties, while existing parties with young leaders in positions of power such as the EFF are maintaining their relatively large youth support base.
On the other hand, parties such as the DA, are not only losing support in elections, but are losing prominent young leaders such as Phumzile van Damme, Mbali Ntuli, Mmusi Maimane and Bongani Baloyi. The reasons for their departures are varied and complex, but they have also pointed to the disproportionate representation of youth in decision-making structures, which has allowed those in positions of power not only to disregard their needs but to underestimate the will of the youth to do something about it.
In terms of representation in addressing this, of the 446 members of parliament, only 51 (11%) are under the age of 35.
In an interview with Wits Vuvuzela, former DA and ActionSA leader, and now founder and president of Xiluva, Bongani Baloyi,said that he believed that young people would vote for those pushing for a “youth-oriented agenda”. This agenda focuses on prioritising pressing issues affecting the youth, such as unemployment.
“Young people deliver better governance,” said Baloyi who, in 2013 at the age of 26, was voted as mayor of Midvaal municipality, a position he held until November 2021. His tenure was well known for clean governance.
With a large fragmentation of political parties in the country – 696 are registered nationally and 1634 locally – youth-oriented parties can pull support away from established parties with unrelatable leaders for young South Africans and play a crucial role in coalition politics.
With some parties already ruling out the possibility of talks with the ANC and EFF, youth-led parties such as Xiluva, Maimane’s Build One South Africa and Rise Mzansi which was launched by former journalist Songezo Zibi on April 19, can gain the upper hand in coalition talks, and to push “youth-based agendas”.
On June 16, the youth of 2022 braved the cold weather and hostility from authorities to sound the alarms
Disappointment was etched on the faces of several young marchers, as the memorandum with their demands was handed over away from public view, at the ‘Youth Day Parade’ hosted by the Ahmed Kathrada Foundation (AKF) on June 16, 2022.
Instead of collecting the memorandum in front of the crowd of about 200 people gathered on the Union Building’s lawns, those leading the parade met with representatives from the presidency on the side lines.
“I am feeling disappointed because we went through a lot to come and deliver this memorandum; from organising and mobilising. We were expecting someone from the presidency to come and receive this memorandum,” said Zamajozi Sithole, projects officer of the youth leadership program at the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund.
“[It] just tells me that young people are still not taken seriously, and it does make me question: will our memorandum be taken seriously?”, said Sithole.
Simon Witbooi, member of the Khoi community that has been camping outside the president’s office for over three years in protest, said he had “seen protests like these” come and go, with nothing done once memorandums are handed over.
But officials promised this time would be different and the issues would be deliberated and resolved. A tall order, considering some of the demands.
The memorandum made calls for better service delivery, climate justice, sustainable employment for youth, a universal basic income of R1 500, and the eradication of corruption, xenophobia, and crime.
Cameron Rodrigues, a University of Pretoria student, said she wanted the government to start listening to the youth’s voices calling for “climate justice” as it equates to education justice.
The youth of 2022 came out in their hundreds to voice out their concerns to the presidency. Photo: Keamogetswe Matlala
Calling for gender equality, Soul City Institute social mobiliser, Nathi Ngwenya said, “we are against patriarchy” and could work with government to bridge current inequalities.
The parade commemorated the 46th anniversary of the 1976 Soweto Youth Uprising, where students protested the Apartheid government’s efforts to make Afrikaans the medium of instruction in township schools.
Speaking to Wits Vuvuzela, Zaki Mamdoo from AKF said: “the youth are the answer. We have solutions to our crises, we are able to lead, organise and […] to present ourselves as the hope for the future of this country”.
The foundation plans to meet with involved stakeholders on July 16, 2022, to follow up on the progress made in meeting their demands.
#YouthDayParade marchers sitting on the Union Buildings lawns. Photo: Keamogetswe MatlalaThe crowd holding up placards as they march from the Loftus Versfield Stadium. Photo: Keamogetswe MatlalaMembers of Equal Education with their artistic hand-made banner. Photo: Keamogetswe Matlala
FEATURED IMAGE: Children as young as eight joined in on the march, putting their best feet forward to secure their future. Photo: Keamogetswe Matlala
Tables of silver ice buckets filled with the finest top-shelf liquor: Bottles of Armand de Brignac Ace of Spades, Louis Roederer Cristal and Veuve Clicquot are standard features at the best clubs and trendiest hang-out spots, but they are for snaps only – then they’re all getting sent back. (more…)
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 […]
