On a hot and humid afternoon in September 2011, I sit with Sizwe and his neighbour Lucas on the street corner at the main pedestrian entrance to Zandspruit. ‘It’s hard to find yourself a nice life,’ Sizwe tells me, describing how young people like him ‘have talent’ but do not know the ‘right people’ to get ahead. ‘If the government doesn’t make sure that people get enough employment,’ he continues, ‘nothing is going to work out.’ Unemployment, he implies, is ‘why people end up in jail − getting years for nothing’. Sizwe is 27 and spends most of his time on this street corner where he meets with a group of friends in their mid-twenties and early thirties. On a typical day, the men gather to gamble, drink, discuss politics, and endlessly scheme ways to make money. ‘I won’t say if I’m working or not,’ Sizwe tells me when I ask about his employment status, ‘but I’m always busy doing lots of activities.’

Sizwe has held two jobs in the formal labour market: he worked weekends at a nearby garden nursery before dropping out of school and as a private security guard for a luxury housing estate a few years later. He left both jobs within six months. Working as a security guard confirmed Sizwe’s suspicion that most of the jobs available to him not only pay little but offer few, if any, pathways to the life he wants. Sizwe does not spend his time looking for wage employment in the surrounding factories, office parks, and shopping malls that attract large numbers of migrants into the area; nor does his livelihood revolve around any one specific activity. Instead, he pursues multiple strategies simultaneously and fosters a wide web of social relations.

I quickly discover that asking whether someone is employed or working is not a useful question for understanding how people sustain themselves. ‘In reality, you cannot just sit and do nothing,’ Lucas tells me, describing how ‘everyone is running around doing their thing’. ‘Some are playing dice [an informal gambling game] and living out of that’, and others are ‘working at night’ – a term that refers to those who make their money through criminal activity. Still others are ‘working in politics’, and some, he continues, ‘rely on their girlfriends or family ’cause they’re working’.

Most of the men I get to know who make money in Zandspruit’s local economy are not untouched by wage labour. They had worked in various, often unrelated, low-wage jobs: as private security guards, cashiers, golf caddies, or petrol attendants. Khenzo first worked on and off as a petrol attendant and then for a fast-food business before turning to the car-wash business full-time. Xolani, who is working as a taxi driver when we meet at the car-wash stand, had a job on a large construction site that became an upmarket housing estate when he first arrived in Johannesburg; later he worked as a golf caddie. Eric, who operates an IT business from his mother’s house and DJs on the side, had worked as a petrol attendant, as a cashier at a bottle store, and at a nearby factory. All of these jobs were almost always held for short periods, usually under a year, and in a surprising number of cases they came to an end because men abandoned them, despite having no guarantee of another job.

The focus of this chapter is on understanding why, when there are jobs, albeit low-paying ones, men voluntarily exit them or even refuse to take them up. It begins with a snapshot of a few of my interlocutors’ work histories to illustrate the type of irregular and precarious jobs that are readily available in the surrounding shopping malls, industrial complexes, and suburbs. It then unpacks the complex web of reasons that lead some young men to withdraw from or turn down low-wage jobs. I show that young men’s disdain for low-wage jobs is never simply a matter of insufficient pay or bad working conditions. It has to do with the impossibility of meaningful progress in these jobs, the experience of racial inequality in the workplace, and the social demands that come with having wage income. In the final section I draw attention to a long pedigree of urban young men rejecting the wage relation in favour of an alternative livelihood. I argue that rejecting low-wage jobs not only is a protest against insecure and precarious employment but also reflects an aspiration and political demand to live and not just survive.

I first visit Zandspruit in July 2011, a week after a string of protests that shake the community. The protestors’ main gripe is the lack of service delivery and the inaction of their local ward councillor, whom they hold responsible for their deplorable living conditions and the missing basic services. On this July morning, I park my car at the petrol station opposite the settlement and phone Lawrence, who has agreed to meet me. Lawrence is a community development worker, a public servant deployed in communities ostensibly to help residents access government services. But Lawrence is stuck in a meeting and cannot meet me as planned. ‘Sello is coming,’ he says over the phone. ‘He knows everything around here.’ The phone cuts. Five minutes later, a short, broad-shouldered man sporting white Superga trainers, a Nike shirt, and a large diamond earring in his left ear approaches me. This is Sello.

Standing next to my car, I explain to Sello that I am here to understand what motivates young people’s involvement in the protests that are becoming a frequent occurrence in townships and informal settlements across South Africa. Sello, not particularly enthusiastic but without hesitation, agrees to show me around. ‘Let’s go to my place first,’ he says, remarking that I will soon comprehend why people are on the streets. We cross the main road and walk along a sidewalk dotted with car repair shops, makeshift hair salons, and a variety of small stalls peddling everything from cellphone chargers to cigarettes and brightly coloured fruit stacked in plastic bowls. We pass by the local primary school, the clinic, and a massive dumpsite with waste piled three metres high. At a T-junction we veer right up a dirt path. Sello’s shack sits at the fork of two more footpaths that lead into a maze of narrow alleys between densely packed shacks in the settlement’s most crowded and under-serviced area. His shack is painted red with Vodacom signage on one side and pictures of various hairstyles on the other. It is divided into the living space he shares with his girlfriend and the area where he runs a barbershop.

On that day, and in the weeks and months that follow, I spend time with Sello and the mix of friends, neighbours, and occasional customers who gather at the barbershop to exchange gossip and discuss local politics. Sello never readily divulges how he makes his money. On some occasions, he refers to himself as unemployed; on others, he claims he is ‘hustling’ or ‘working in politics’. It is only after observing the ebb and flow of people at his shack – often a site of lengthy negotiations and disputes over payments – that I start to grasp the various sources of Sello’s income and understand why almost everyone I meet in Zandspruit knows him. Sello operates as a local mashonisa (unregistered loan shark) and plays a prominent role in the informal governance structures that patrol the streets at night. I later learn that he played a significant role in orchestrating the recent protests, something I was unaware of when we initially met. Sello’s barbershop is not primarily a commercial enterprise. It serves as a nexus for social networks and a legitimate income source, shielding him from potential allegations of corruption from his political adversaries. He makes money through various means, including managing informal land transactions, mediating disputes between landlords and tenants, and lending money to local residents at a hefty 50 per cent interest rate, regardless of the loan size. ‘There is a lot of money revolving around here,’ he tells me, ‘but it requires a sharp mind to see it and to take advantage of it.’

Zandspruit is connected to Johannesburg’s inner city via Beyers Naudé Drive. This road begins at the University of Johannesburg in the leafy green suburb of Auckland Park and winds its way through the older (and still predominantly white) suburbs of Northcliff, Blackheath, Fairland, and Randpark Ridge to the newer and racially more diverse suburbs of Sundowner, Northwold, and Ruimsig. These newer residential areas have taken a particular post-apartheid form in which townhouse complexes and gated communities are the norm. The 30-kilometre road is lined with shopping malls, drive-through fast-food restaurants, car dealerships, and large billboards advertising the latest cars, fashion trends, and alcohol brands. You are getting close to Zandspruit when you reach a four-way intersection that, to the left, features a newly built townhouse complex advertised as offering ‘affordable’ flats and, to the right, leads to the Northgate dome (a large multipurpose event venue). As you continue straight, you pass the turn-off for the Jackal Creek Golf Estate and the Honeydew police station on your right and a dirt soccer pitch on your left. Then, as if out of nowhere, shacks begin to protrude on to the sidewalk, informal electricity wires criss-cross above, and the pavement is chock-a-block with commuters, traders, and hustlers (figure 1.1).

The sidewalk doubles up as the main avenue for informal trade. Many of the shacks that jut into the street operate as homes as well as hair salons, shoe-repair stands, and stalls and range from tiny to quite spacious. The smaller makeshift tables sell oranges, sweets, small packets of chips, and cigarettes, while the larger establishments sell vegetables, second-hand clothes, mobile phone accessories, and traditional medicines. Some vendors operate from shipping containers that stock larger items including winter blankets, paraffin cookers, mattresses, and roller suitcases. Others, selling sugar cane, avocados, and naartjies (tangerines), operate from the back of car boots and open bakkies (small pickup trucks). Cages crammed with bony chickens are also common. Still others, especially those selling pirated DVDs and CDs, walk up and down the street with their stock in a pouch. They do this to be able to escape the police who raid this strip from time to time. Most traders on this walkway are middle-aged women, often immigrants, and many have young children with them. Many sell identical bags of rice, roasted peanuts, spinach, beans, or biscuits, displayed on a plank of wood balancing precariously on a plastic bucket.

‘Most people going to work in the morning are from outside,’ Mandla, a pastor in his early forties, tells me as we stand outside his double-storey shack. ‘The people from here don’t work,’ he continues, using emphasis to guide my understanding. Mandla lives with his wife and two young children, works as a boilermaker during the week, and leads a small Zionist church on weekends. His assertion is a common refrain. I am often told that compared to immigrants and newcomers (outsiders), locals (insiders) are ‘lazy’ and ‘choosy’ when it comes to finding wage employment. The roadside pickup point on the perimeter of the settlement, where people wait in the hope of being picked up for labour-intensive day jobs, is a frequent reference point in these conversations. Many contrast it with the street corners where young men are seen, at least by some, to be ‘just sitting’. Mandla even offers to attach a camera to the roof of his shack so that I can see with my own eyes that it is outsiders, and not insiders, who leave the settlement in the early hours of the morning to look for or do work outside the settlement. Mandla is, of course, only referring to work as wage employment – which involves a spatial division between work and home – and not to the work of hustling or brokering we explored in the previous chapter.

The idea that locals are choosy when it comes to finding wage employment is one I encounter again and again in my conversations with residents of all ages, genders, and nationalities. Kagiso, the founder of the youth-run NGO discussed in chapter 2, tells me that young people from Zandspruit tend to ‘relax a bit’ when it comes to finding work compared to newcomers, who face greater ‘pressure to find jobs’. At first, I view with suspicion comments like this that conflate people’s residential status as insiders and outsiders with the likelihood of them being in wage work. I question whether these comments do not reproduce historical stereotypes of ‘hard-working’ migrants and ‘lazy’ locals. During apartheid, employers widely regarded township youth (who worked and lived in urban areas under the section 10 laws) as cheeky and unreliable and preferred to hire rural migrants (outsiders) whom they perceived as harder-working, cheaper, and more submissive and respectful.

‘If we don’t fight for our future, who’s going to fight for us?’ Sello asks, a week after the third protest in 2011 that turned the busy Beyers Naudé Drive into a no-go zone. ‘If we just sit, this problem is not going to be fixed. We have to fight until we get what we want,’ he continues, insisting that Zandspruit stands no chance of improved service delivery if people do not go to the streets in protest. Sello, whom I met on my first day in Zandspruit, is, like so many residents, angry about the living conditions in Zandspruit and the government’s failure to develop the community. He played a key role in orchestrating the string of protests between March and July 2011 that aimed to reconfigure local government positions and the distribution of resources within the community. These protests were neither the first nor the last time Zandspruit residents close off Beyers Naudé Drive to traffic and implement a stay-away that resembles a general strike. The community has been the site of recurring protests in which unemployed young men consistently emerge as central figures. These uprisings are characteristic of militant local protests that have become a frequent occurrence in informal settlements and townships across the country.

This chapter examines the nexus between these protests, young men’s endeavours to make a life in the settlement, and the settlement’s sociopolitical landscape. Specifically, it focuses on the involvement of men like Sello, whom I call ‘protest brokers’, who play a key role in organising and leading protests. This distinguishes them from a broader group of protestors who take to the streets. Notably, they are insiders with long-standing ties in the settlement and a political claim or stake in its future. Like many of the men explored in earlier chapters, they are for the most part excluded from wage employment and have rarely if ever been involved in collective worker struggles. Their workplace experiences led them to quit or reject low-wage jobs (see chapter 4) rather than organise collectively or bargain with employers. In other words, the community and not the workplace is the central arena for their political engagement and claim-making.

On Sunday, 25 October 2015, two days after thousands of univer-On sity students march to the Union Buildings in Pretoria in protest against fee increases, I receive a flood of messages asking whether I am coming to Zandspruit. There is a rumour circulating that Julius Malema, the EFF’s controversial leader, would be speaking at a rally later that day. I arrive in Zandspruit at 2:00 p.m. to find a large crowd gathered around a red gazebo and a white bakkie, which is used as a platform, opposite the primary school (figure C.1). This is one of many EFF rallies that take place in informal settlements and townships across the province that weekend. The rallies seek to mobilise support for the party’s Economic Freedom March on 27 October. I stand with Sizwe and his neighbour Lucas, who is wearing one of the EFF’s signature red berets. Sizwe’s shack is only a few yards from the truck around which everyone has congregated. We have been waiting for over an hour when Malema finally arrives. As he gets out of the car and steps on to the back of the bakkie, the crowd erupts with raised fists and shouts of ‘Ju! Ju! Ju! Ju!’ Some residents have climbed on top of their shacks to get a glimpse of the commander-in-chief, as he is known. He begins his speech with a stinging indictment of the ruling ANC government. ‘There is no better life in Zandspruit,’ he declares, decrying that most residents in informal settlements are still living in shacks without reliable water and electricity 21 years after the end of apartheid. ‘It’s like [living in] a jail … You are not free,’ he proclaims.

After listing the pressing service delivery and infrastructural needs of the community, Malema turns to the failure of the post-1994 government to include the majority of the population in the economy in any meaningful way. ‘The ANC sold out black people,’ he states, accusing the ANC of protecting ‘white capital’ and betraying black aspirations. ‘How can you say you are free when you have no money?’ he asks. Hardly stopping to breathe, he turns his attention to the steep rise in the practice of labour brokering.

In June 2015, I attend a government-funded career exhibition in Zandspruit. The event is hosted by the City of Johannesburg in partnership with a local NGO to mark Youth Day, a national holiday that commemorates the 1976 student protests against the apartheid education system. The organisers promise a line-up of speakers, including representatives from various technical colleges, universities, the Department of Labour, the youth desk at the local police station, and the National Youth Development Agency (NYDA) that was set up in 2008 to address youth development issues at national, provincial, and local government level. I arrive late and find a seat in the back row of chairs set up in the school’s driveway. A woman from the NYDA stands up to speak just as I arrive. ‘Do you want to see yourself somewhere someday – to move from here to Sandton or Honeydew [upmarket suburbs in Johannesburg]?’ she asks, before admonishing young people for the next ten minutes for not prioritising their education or making use of government initiatives to help them start their own businesses.

The next speaker is a police officer who oversees the youth desk at the local police station. He is short, well built, and wears a tight-fitting black golf shirt. The youth desk is a volunteer-based structure at the police station that, at least in theory, aims to involve young people in curbing crime in the community. His pep talk too is more a rebuke than a motivation. ‘Do you want to see yourself in a squatter camp for the rest of your life?’ he asks as he climbs on to the stage. Young people are ‘killing their futures’, he says, criticising them for being more interested in obtaining Carvela shoes worth ZAR 3 000 (USD 183.22) than in furthering their education. ‘Either you suffer now and enjoy the rest of your life,’ he proclaims, ‘or you enjoy now and suffer the rest of your life’ (emphasis added). The police officer, much like the NYDA representative, affirms young people’s aspiration for upward mobility at the same time as he disparages them for being impatient and unwilling to ‘suffer’, or work hard, to improve their lives. The police officer’s criticism that young people are preoccupied with ‘enjoy[ing]’ their lives draws on a widespread stereotype that links young people’s consumer desires to a misguided prioritisation of the present at the expense of the future.