Joburg has transformed into a grotesque theatre of the absurd, where governance and service delivery are just cruel jokes spewed forth by public officials who are more obsessed with nailing the pronunciation of fancy imported booze than lifting this city from the depths of urban decay…
By Themba Khumalo
By any sane measure, Joburg is a ticking time bomb of chaos!
The city’s utilities are practically howling their warnings every week; if not every day.
But let us cut the crap—this city is not just in trouble; it is plunging headfirst into the abyss of urban decay, and the transformation into a godforsaken slum is already light-years ahead of what anyone dares to admit.
As you trudge through the hellish maze of Joburg’s CBD today, a putrid stench of decay slams into you like a freight train.
Just under twenty years ago, the signs of decline were mere whispers, but now we have plunged headfirst into a pit of despair so deep it could swallow the sun. Once a city of promise, it lies in ruins, a victim of the relentless grip of decay, marking the beginning of a tragic saga.
Only the delusional would dare to claim Johannesburg is thriving; the reality is a grotesque nightmare, mirroring the agonies of countless forgotten towns scattered across South Africa. And as if that were not enough, those in power seem hell-bent on shovelling more dirt onto this grave with every tick of the clock.
The markers of total neglect wail at you from every crumbling pavement!
Driving through Joburg is like being thrust into a heart-stopping, adrenaline-fueled race for survival. The roads have become a treacherous minefield, littered with an army of potholes that lurk like ravenous beasts ready to devour unsuspecting vehicles.
Yep, potholes, once just minor annoyances, have now transformed into colossal voids, threatening to engulf everything in their path. This so-called network of roads is hanging on by a thread, a pitiful collage of desperation and the yawning chasms where real roads should be.
Occasionally, a feeble attempt at repair is made. Some poor soul dumps a pitiful load into the hole, smoothing it over as if it will possibly contain the chaos. But it is a laughable farce, a mere band-aid on a gaping wound. Within a week or two, the pothole rears its ugly head again, larger and more ferocious, as if it has been waiting for its moment to strike back.
The only way to truly obliterate these asphalt abominations is to demolish the entire road and start afresh.
The coffers are empty, a desolate wasteland of financial ruin!
This city stands not merely as bankrupt but as a grotesque monument to despair; a place where hope has been crushed under insurmountable debt. No amount of money, no matter how vast, could possibly resurrect this decaying carcass in the next decade or so.
Every day, the expenses skyrocket, devouring more than double the meagre income it struggles to collect. The roads are nothing but fading memories, mere phantoms of what once was, crumbling into dust before our very eyes.
The parks, those once-pristine oases of joy, now lie in utter disarray, as if a violent storm had swept through and left nought but chaos in its wake. Every square, every garden, and every hallowed spot of historical significance has succumbed to the ravages of neglect, becoming a mere shadow of its former glory—run down, unsightly, and cast aside like an old shoe in a dusty and haunted attic.
The streets also bear witness to a troubling reality where men relieve their bladders and bowels in the most public of places—sidewalks, walls, and trees become their unwitting toilets. The concept of public toilets is a mere fantasy here. And where they do exist, they stand as grotesque monuments to neglect, festering with filth and the stench of human despair, a testament to the decline of both infrastructure and humanity.
The city is replete with other such grand monuments to our collective folly. Liquor stores, those bastions of insobriety, are often encircled by a sea of souls, each steeped in hopelessness so profound it could drown a whale.
And let us not forget the car parks, those asphalt jungles where despair roams free.
Any public rubbish bin, a veritable treasure chest for the pauperized, is scoured with the zeal of a gold miner panning for fortune, as they sift through the refuse for anything that might stave off hunger. That is, if a Pikitup employee ever arrives to tend to it; and if the bin hasn’t already erupted like a volcano of refuse, spewing forth its contents in a most unceremonious fashion.
Within those revered grounds where we are called to honour the dead—public cemeteries, imagined as peaceful havens of beauty—lies a poignant truth that pierces the heart. The atmosphere is laden with decay, and the final resting places of the departed are scattered across a bleak, abandoned landscape. In this place, the deceased are not enveloped by the finest gestures of love, but rather encircled by a chilling apathy that strips away the sanctity of their everlasting peace.
The city is facing significant structural challenges, stemming from years of neglect that have now come to the forefront. Water-related problems are particularly critical, heralding an impending crisis that will overshadow load-shedding issues. The threat of severely contaminated water is imminent, along with severe traffic congestion and ageing infrastructure.
Administrative inefficiencies further complicate the situation, while widespread violations of city regulations add to the disorder. These challenges demand a visionary approach to resolution and rehabilitation, yet such foresight is strikingly absent.
Joburg is a city in turmoil, lacking a definitive identity or cohesive brand, and is further hindered by its fragmentation. Those in positions of authority seem to be engaged in a frantic effort to reallocate the dwindling resources available, focusing on immediate fixes rather than laying the groundwork for a sustainable future.