When it emerged that Geordin Hill-Lewis would run for DA leader, it felt settled. He was the frontrunner.

His candidacy was fashioned as the safe pair of hands to take over from John Steenhuisen.

It seemed obvious that he would be he leader candidate the party could rally behind without much friction.

Then we learnt on Tuesday that Sibusiso Dyonase decided to run.

Dyonase is 33 councillor and Sedibeng caucus leader.

He is definitely not a household name and an unknown in the party.

But when I asked him why would he bother with a race he is likely to lose, he said that he read that Hill-Lewis might go uncontested, and that was enough.

“I believe in democracy, and I believe if we are going to have very important elections like the Federal Congress, the delegates in the Federal Congress needs to also have their choices, and they need to be afforded the chance to make a different choice than the one that is normally usual. I believe good contestation is very important to show democracy and to show that, we actually push open opportunity society for all. Because I believe that the general rules of the Congress is that every member can put in their nomination. And I believe I’m a member in good standing, and I have been tested in my leadership skills, and I’ve been practicing my leadership skills for a very long time,” he said.

Dyonase story is not the usual one. He joined the DA at 19, straight out of matric, because he couldn’t afford to study further.

It started as something to do. It became something more as over time, he found alignment with the party’s values and stayed.

He has spent most of that time on the ground as an activist.

“I think I have time, I have spirit, and I actually have a great amount of dedication and with a great amount and an open space to actually learn for further and sharpen my abilities in becoming the leader of the Democratic Alliance. I know it’s not gonna be a simple task. I’m going to have to commit myself hundred percent to the job,” Dyonase said of why he thinks he is best positioned for the party.

That is the case he is making now. That the party should not only be led from the top, but also shaped by those who have built it from below.

Let’s be honest. is still the favourite. He has been mayor of Cape Town since 2021.

He has the profile and the backing. Most analysts see this as his race but Dyonase’s entry shifts the conversation.

It forces a contest where there might not have been one.

It also puts the idea of internal democracy under the spotlight.

Dyonase is not naïve about the scale of the task.

So what is he really after?

He says it is not just about winning. In a party that often speaks about democracy, that might be the point.

In December 2022, a respected panel of the country’s top legal minds, including a former Chief Justice, presented a report to Parliament. They were tasked with determining whether President Cyril Ramaphosa had a case to answer and whether impeachment proceedings should follow.

This was in relation to the 2020 robbery of $580 000 in cash hidden in a couch at his Phala Phala farm in Limpopo. There has been plenty of political spin and there is still no full clarity in the public domain. But what is known is that a large sum of foreign currency was stolen and the source of that cash will always remain a cloud over the President’s head. The panel told Parliament that there was enough reason to believe the president may have been guilty of misconduct and may have acted inconsistently with the Constitution. But the political timing dictated what followed. It was just before the ANC conference. The party still held a majority in Parliament, whipped its members, and secured a vote against adopting the report.

Then the EFF vowed to challenge that decision. By 2024, it argued before the Constitutional Court that Parliament had acted irrationally. The case was thoroughly debated at the apex court. I remember sitting in court and thinking that this is the kind of matter that will be as seminal as the 2016 Nkandla judgment was for our body politic. It involves the top of the executive, the top of the legislature, and is now being arbitrated by the apex of the judiciary. To have this matter finalised is undoubtedly urgent.

But now, more than 470 days later, there is no movement. And for the EFF, which has repeatedly marched on the court, this has all the hallmarks of something suspicious. And with every day that passes they are more legitimised in their criticisms. But this delay is just a symptom of a much deeper problem.

A report by journalist Dianne Hawker points out that the Phala Phala matter is the longest the Constitutional Court has ever taken to deliver judgment. This means, whichever way the court rules will be consequential. If it takes the EFF’s side now, it risks being seen as having fallen prey to public pressure. If it sides with Parliament, the delay itself will invite scrutiny.

Chief Justice Mandisa Maya knows just how politically charged this matter is. She has conceded that the public could reasonably interpret the delay as something untoward. There is no easy way to explain it. But there’s awkward realities the country has to also contend with.

Since a 2013 decision that effectively made the Constitutional Court the final arbiter in all legal matters, not only those involving constitutional issues, the workload of the court has increased significantly. Yet there has not been a corresponding increase in resources. The President himself acknowledged this last year. And now, the Chief Justice is not only responsible for judgments but also serves as the administrative head of the judiciary. The Office of the Chief Justice operates much like a government department, without equivalent resourcing.

Then there is the question of capacity. There are vacancies on the court that the president must fill. The court has had to rely heavily on acting justices. It is now nearly five full months since the Judicial Service Commission interviewed and recommended five judges for President Ramaphosa to select two for appointment to the Constitutional Court.

The president has not yet made these appointments. Experts say this leaves the highest court in the land to hobble along without a full complement of 11 permanent judges for the tenth year in a row. There is also the issue of support.

Research by academics Nurina Ally and Leo Boonzaier shows that, over the period between 2010 and 2024, the Constitutional Court’s performance has been gradually declining. The court is taking longer to hear cases and deliver judgments.

These are not abstract concerns. They have been raised in official reports and acknowledged by the Chief Justice herself. There have also been ongoing discussions within the executive about better funding the judiciary, with some movement in the most recent budget cycle. But this is not enough to explain the delay to an ordinary, rational person.

So the question inevitably arises. Is the president dragging his feet on judicial appointments in a way that weakens the courts? And if there is even a perception of that, it needs to be addressed. In the immediate term, a solid judgment in the Phala Phala matter must be delivered, and delivered speedily. I don’t have to remind the Constitutional Court that justice delayed is justice denied. Because whichever way the judgment goes, it will carry enormous weight.

No serious legal observer can ignore the dent this unprecedented delay has caused to the standing of the court. Once the Phala Phala judgment is delivered, there must be an immediate intervention to ensure this never happens again. This moment is awkward for our democracy. And it carries real risks.

This is no longer just about one judgment. It really is about the credibility of the court itself. The longer the silence stretches, the easier it becomes for suspicion that something is “being cooked” behind the scenes to fill the gap. And we all can agree that the Constitutional Court does not trade on power, it trades on trust.

And right now, that trust is being tested.

On our debut show, The Debrief, I sat down to discuss what had happened after I went to a media briefing at the Department of International Relations and Cooperation. And from that briefing, I immediately knew something serious was unfolding.

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The briefing came just a day after the US ambassador to South Africa, Brent Bozell, made his first public remarks at a business conference. What should have been a fairly standard diplomatic appearance quickly became controversial. The ambassador spoke about trade and repeated the familiar Trump-era line that relationships must be reciprocal, with the implication that American companies are somehow doing South Africa a favour by operating here. But the speech became far more explosive when he turned to South Africa’s relationship with Iran and to the long-running debate around the chant “Kill the Boer.”

He said South Africa should rethink its friendship with what he called a “pariah”, referring to Iran. That was already bound to provoke debate because South Africa’s relationship with Iran has long irritated parts of the American political establishment, especially since South Africa took Israel to the International Court of Justice. But his comments on the court ruling on the political chant “Kill the Boer” really escalated matters.

This chant has been the subject of years of political and legal battles in South Africa. Our highest courts have ruled that, in context, it is not hate speech. People can disagree with that judgment, but in a constitutional democracy, court rulings matter. The ambassador signalled that he did not care what South African courts had said and insisted that he viewed the chant as hate speech. That crossed a diplomatic line.

For the South African government, this was not simply about a disagreement over politics. It was about a foreign diplomat openly dismissing the authority of South African courts and inserting himself into a sensitive domestic debate.

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That is why DIRCO moved quickly to summon him.

In diplomatic language, this is called a démarche, which is essentially a formal warning from a host country to a diplomat that their conduct or comments are unacceptable. What made the moment even more striking is that South Africa had reasons to object to this ambassador long before he arrived. He has a history of controversial remarks about the ANC and South Africa.

Pretoria could have refused his credentials and asked Washington to send someone else. Instead, the government accepted him, despite reservations, because South Africa’s foreign policy generally prefers engagement over escalation. The thinking was that keeping channels of communication open would be better than cutting them off.

At the briefing, Minister Ronald Lamola made that logic clear. South Africa had chosen the bridge-building route. But that did not mean the ambassador had a free pass to disregard the country’s constitutional order. According to Lamola, the ambassador later expressed regret and apologised. He also acknowledged that after visiting places like the Apartheid Museum and District Six, he had gained a better understanding of South Africa’s history and the need for redress.

This understanding mattered because one of the deeper tensions in this dispute is that some on the right, both in South Africa and the United States, attack transformation and redress measures without engaging the historical reasons they exist. The bigger issue is the deteriorating relationship between Pretoria and Washington under Trump. Since Trump’s return, there have been tariffs, threats and growing hostility toward South Africa’s foreign policy positions.

The current conflict involving Iran makes things even more fraught because the United States increasingly wants countries to choose sides. South Africa is resisting that pressure, saying it remains non-aligned and guided by international law.

That position is often criticised as inconsistent, but Pretoria argues that international law is in South Africa’s interest. It protects smaller states from the whims of powerful ones. For that reason, South Africa says it will not simply follow Washington’s line on Iran or any other conflict.

For me, last week’s story was about more than one ambassador’s loose comments. It was about sovereignty, diplomacy and the limits of foreign interference. South Africa was right to push back. You can disagree with our courts, our laws or our politics, but if you are a diplomat posted here, you do not get to dismiss the constitutional framework that governs this country.

At first, I told myself this was a Middle East story. Tragic. Destabilising. But geographically distant from Africa. The more I researched, the less true that felt. So, I started asking a simple question: if this conflict escalates, where does Africa feel it first?

When I interviewed analysts, one region kept coming up immediately, the Sahel. Mali. Burkina Faso. Niger. These are countries already battling jihadist insurgencies and already stretched thin. As I dug deeper, I realised that when global powers shift focus and resources, insurgent groups notice. Escalation elsewhere can create opportunity here. Then I turned my attention to the Horn of Africa. Somalia and Djibouti sit along vital Red Sea shipping lanes. Djibouti hosts multiple foreign military bases. I researched how much global trade moves through that corridor, as it links Europe, the Gulf, and Asia. And I found out that any disruption there does not stay local. The Red Sea has already seen vessel attacks in recent years, and so tensions are not hypothetical. Israel also strengthened ties with Somaliland earlier this year, adding another geopolitical layer to a region that is already delicate.

Denis Muniu, Security and Policy Analyst at The Global Centre for Policy & Strategy, explained it to Africa Explained like this:

“Any escalation will bring retaliatory signalling or heightened scrutiny in the Horn of Africa. Fragile states with active insurgencies may experience opportunistic attacks as these military groups may exploit regional instabilities to advance their agenda. Maritime routes along the Red Sea and also the western Indian Ocean could also become flashpoints. As we remember during the previous wars, the Red Sea has become a flashpoint for conflict, even that the Houthi rebels have attacked ships passing through that route.”

The phrase “opportunistic attacks” has stayed with me. Escalation does not always look like tanks crossing borders. Sometimes it looks like armed groups stepping into chaos. But beyond these countries, Sudan worries me most. Sudan’s war is not isolated from Gulf dynamics. The RSF militant group has been widely linked to networks connected to the United Arab Emirates, while Iran backs the Sudanese army. If the confrontation between Iran and the Gulf intensifies, those financial and supply pipelines could shift or close and Sudan’s battlefield could once again be reshaped.

As my research progressed, I shifted from security to diplomacy. I tried to imagine the conversations happening quietly in African capitals right now.

Who do we align with?
How publicly?
And at what cost?

For South Africa, I found this question especially complicated. South Africa is part of BRICS and maintains relations with Iran. At the same time, its economy is deeply tied to Western trade and financial systems. I looked at how quickly the rand moves when markets sense geopolitical risk and it reacts almost instantly.

Dr Ross Harvey, Director of Research & Programmes at Good Governance Africa, put it plainly:

“In an increasingly fragmented world, following neutrality can raise risks for your country and certainly it does that for South Africa. In other words, we would suffer the secondary effects of direct sanctions on Iran and so your trade politics becomes a lot more fluid in this situation and South Africa is at risk.”

And so, I dug into the numbers for you. After striking the world’s largest oil export terminal, Saudi Aramco, Iran has now targeted Fujairah Port in the UAE as well. Fujairah is key because it sits just outside the Strait of Hormuz and handles major oil storage and exports. Any disruption there could quickly impact global oil supplies and prices. And we know that when oil prices spike, investors flee to the dollar. I already know what comes next for many African economies. When oil prices rise because of instability in the Gulf, African import bills rise. When investors pile into the dollar, African currencies weaken. Many countries across the continent carry significant dollar-denominated debt. A stronger dollar means more expensive repayments and higher oil means higher fuel costs. Countries like Kenya, Egypt, Tunisia, Ethiopia, and Ghana are particularly exposed because they rely heavily on fuel imports and are already managing debt pressure. In South Africa, fuel prices are directly tied to global oil prices and the rand–dollar exchange rate. It does not take long for global shocks to filter through to the petrol pump.

Dr Harvey described the paradox clearly:

“So, the craziness of this situation is that those countries like Angola and Nigeria, I mean Nigeria is improving little by little but still not nearly enough. And so, when the dollar rises and the oil price goes up, well that’s kind of good for foreign exchange revenue but it’s extremely costly in respect to maintaining fossil fuel subsidies. And then for countries that are not oil rich they don’t necessarily have any kind of buffer against that. In South Africa, there’s going to be a fuel price hike on Wednesday and that’s because the global oil price is going up because oil supplies are going to be disrupted and so oil may well climb back up to $100 barrel or so and we haven’t seen those kinds of prices sustained anyway since around 2014.”

I kept thinking about what this looks like for an ordinary African just trying to survive. Taxi fares will rise. Food prices edge upward. Fertilizer becomes more expensive for farmers. Governments tighten spending because debt repayments increase. And families who rely on remittances from relatives working in Gulf countries may start worrying about job security and income disruption if instability spreads.

Energy and infrastructure policy expert Lom Nuku Ahlijah told me what African countries need to focus on:

“This conflict is not only about the final missiles but the real impact and the shockwaves that will be affected in Africa. And in African countries we need to work as a continent on ensuring that there are significant buffers as far as storage of essential commodities are concerned, as far as foreign action reserves are concerned and also work significantly on strategic diplomacy to ensure that we have options when challenges of conflicts like this arise.”

As I close this entry, one conclusion feels unavoidable. This war may be unfolding in the Middle East, but its shockwaves travel through oil markets, shipping corridors, fragile security environments, and financial systems that connect directly to Africa. It does not feel distant anymore, it feels interconnected.

Until next time.

I’ve had the same thought looping in my head all week: Africa is sitting on a gold mine.

And I don’t mean that in a dramatic, history-book sense. I mean right now. At this exact moment, as the world races toward electric cars, artificial intelligence, renewable energy, and next-generation military technology, the minerals that make all of it possible are buried beneath African soil. From cobalt, lithium, copper, platinum, to rare earth elements. The part that unsettles me the most is that it’s still not creating real industrial jobs here at home. They are not the kinds of jobs that transform entire economies or build long-term industrial capacity. They are not positions for engineers designing advanced battery systems, or technicians operating high-tech refineries, or teams managing massive processing plants humming day and night. We dig, while others refine, manufacture, and scale.

So I asked what feels like a painfully obvious question: if Africa has the minerals, why aren’t the jobs here? The more I looked into it, the more familiar it all began to feel.

Africa Explained spoke to Dr. Fadhel Kaboub, Associate Professor of Economics at Denison University, who did not hesitate to draw a historical parallel. He told us that what we are witnessing today is “yet another scramble for raw materials from the Global South, similar to what we saw during colonial times,” adding that after independence, many African economies never fully escaped the structural trap of being providers of cheap materials and consumers of technology, while industrialized countries remained the producers of that technology.

It is hard to ignore that echo, especially when the stakes are even higher now.

Take the Democratic Republic of the Congo, which controls most of the world’s cobalt. Or Zambia and Zimbabwe, key players in copper and lithium, and South Africa, which dominates platinum production. These are not marginal resources. They sit at the heart of the global energy transition. They are minerals most of us barely notice, yet they literally power the future and we have an abundance of them right here in Africa. But here is what I have learned: extracting minerals is only the beginning. The real money, and the real jobs, lie in refining them and transforming them into battery components, processors, and other high-value industrial inputs. Most of that still happens outside the continent. On paper, Africa’s resource base looks like leverage and a strategic advantage at a time when the world urgently needs exactly what it has. In practice, that leverage is more complicated.

As I spoke with experts across the continent, connecting the dots to understand the full picture, I realized that this new scramble for critical minerals has raised serious concerns about how renewed engagement with Africa is being structured. There have been discussions around “security for minerals” arrangements involving the United States and governments such as the DRC and Rwanda. Critics argue that some of these framework’s risk reinforcing extractive patterns, where access to resources is secured without sufficient emphasis on building local industries. The concern is not just about individual agreements, but about the precedent they may set and how they could shape future mineral negotiations. For a continent still grappling with the economic consequences of colonialism, that is an unsettling prospect.

I also discovered something interesting. After COVID-19 and the Russia-Ukraine war disrupted global supply chains, something shifted. Governments in the United States and across the European Union woke up to how dependent they were on external suppliers, particularly China, for critical inputs. Reducing that dependence quickly became a national security priority. With China already dominating much of the refining space, the US, the EU, and even Gulf countries are now scrambling to secure alternative supply chains.

If this feels like déjà vu, it is because we have been here before, with cocoa, coffee, oil, and other natural resources. Now it is critical minerals. The most intense competition, however, is between the United States and China.

Dr. Ross Harvey, Director of Research at Good Governance Africa, explained it this way:

“Africa has rich geological deposits in an array of minerals that everybody in the world needs, especially as we attempt to transition to a lower carbon future. Much of the race for Africa’s minerals is a function of geopolitical fragmentation. Part of this was precipitated by Covid, so European and North American countries are trying to reduce their dependence on China and gain direct access to Africa’s resources.”

Here lies the uncomfortable contrast: while the US and Europe have only recently intensified their scramble to secure supply, China spent decades investing not only in mining access but also in mastering refining technology. Controlling mines is one thing; controlling refining capacity at the levels required for high-tech manufacturing is another. That capability now gives China significant influence over global supply chains. And while the US often approaches the issue through security-driven frameworks, China has taken a different diplomatic route, including removing tariffs on goods from 53 African countries. Ziyanda Stuurman, Insights and Advocacy Advisor at Africa Practice, described this move to Africa Explained as “soft diplomatic power” intended to present China as a reliable, long-term trading partner that does not abruptly impose conditions or withdraw support. Whether that narrative holds over time is open to debate, but strategically, it matters. All of this geopolitical manoeuvring may feel distant, yet it carries very real implications for African economies.

What struck me most in speaking to experts is how complex the solution actually is. A unified African negotiating position sounds powerful in theory, but national interests do not always align neatly with continental ambitions. Each country must balance immediate fiscal pressures with long-term industrial goals. Still, clear themes are emerging around what stronger mineral agreements could look like. These include mandatory local processing, meaningful beneficiation, and infrastructure investment embedded directly into contracts. In other words, if minerals are leaving, something lasting should remain behind for local communities.

Stuurman emphasized how important this shift is:

“The ideal scenario over the next one or two AU summits, and certainly over the next few years, is that we reach a collective understanding of what a minimum trade deal should entail. China’s long-term infrastructure approach, whether airports, bridges, ports, roads, or rail, should be baked into agreements with African governments or regional bodies to ensure that relationships are not extractive and exploitative.”

Even leaders such as South African President Cyril Ramaphosa have publicly stressed the need to move beyond exporting raw materials and toward processing and exporting higher-value products. And so even if the conversation is happening, the real question is whether it will lead to structural change.

I keep returning to this central point: the world urgently needs Africa’s minerals. That urgency creates leverage. But leverage only works if it is used strategically. If we continue shipping out raw materials, advanced factories will be built elsewhere, engineers will be trained elsewhere, and patents will be registered elsewhere. Once again, we may be told that we “missed the window.”

This moment could become another chapter in a familiar story, in which Africa supplies raw inputs while others capture the higher-value stages of production. But it could also mark a turning point, where mineral wealth is used to build domestic industries and reshape the continent’s place in global value chains.

The scramble has already begun. The difference this time is that the outcome is not yet fixed. And that, perhaps, is the most important detail of all.

Until next time.

I went to Newtown thinking I was signing up for a simple sewing lesson. I left thinking about economic dignity.

Inside the SANZAF Skills Centre in Johannesburg, the hum of sewing machines competes with conversation and instruction. Patterns are carefully traced. Fabric is measured twice before it is cut. And beginners like me are quickly humbled.

Sewing, it turns out, is much harder than it looks.

The class forms part of a broader empowerment programme run by SANZAF, a charity organisation that has expanded its focus beyond relief into social entrepreneurship. What stood out immediately is that this is not framed as charity work. It is framed as opportunity.

“We are here at our SANZAF social entrepreneurship water bottling section. This is one of the projects that we set up to train people on how to do basic skills,” Javed Hoosen from SANZAF explained as he walked us through the facility. “This is all part of the empowerment project that SANZAF focuses on allowing them to earn a decent income.”

The sewing room is just one piece of a much bigger ecosystem. In another section, bottled water is being prepared and labelled. In yet another, food is being cooked as part of community soup kitchens. Each project is designed not only to serve a need, but to teach a skill.

Hoosen is clear about the philosophy behind it.

“We need to create opportunities and platforms for people where they come in, where they learn, where they belong, where they grow and where they are able to give back,” he said.

That sense of belonging is deliberate. Many of the women and young people who come through the centre arrive with basic abilities but no pathway to turn those skills into income. The goal here is to bridge that gap.

“If you come in and you have a basic skill, how do you take that skill and turn that into something that people really want?” Hoosen asked. “The idea is people should buy and support the project not because they feel sorry, no, because it is a sympathetic welfare project. This is a project where people actually learn skills and they apply their mind and they craft.”

That distinction matters. In a country grappling with high unemployment, especially among young people and women, the difference between handouts and marketable skills can determine whether someone remains dependent or becomes self sustaining.

The centre’s work extends into schools and youth programmes as well. “Some of the few projects that we mentioned that you may have seen in the green bus include opportunities for skills development for kids at schools, from nursery schools, aftercare facilities, tuition programmes, feeding to keep the kids happy, nutritious and at schools,” Hoosen said. “We also focus on empowerment in terms of the youth. They get involved in the soup kitchens that we run, flipping the food, developing their food safety skills, allowing them to explore culinary options and to get placed outside of SANZAF.”

Back in the sewing room, my uneven stitching is proof that mastery takes time. But that is precisely the point. Skill building is slow. It requires patience, repetition and guidance.

I may not be launching a fashion line anytime soon, but the experience offered something more valuable than a finished garment. It offered a window into a model of community development that centres dignity, enterprise and belonging.

In a city that often feels defined by inequality, spaces like this quietly stitch together something different.

The fasting month of Ramadaan is a time of prayer and reflection, but for the small Muslim community in Tzaneen, Limpopo, the first fast ended with an incident that has left many shaken.

As worshippers were leaving the Taraweeh prayer at Masjid-e-Salam, the town’s only mosque, bottles believed to contain acid were thrown into the crowd. One man was injured in the eyes and leg and was taken to hospital.

“The Tzaneen Muslim community expresses deep concern and condemnation with regard to the events which unfolded on the evening of the 20th of February at 9:40 p.m.,” said Yasmeen Moosa, who is from the area and monitoring the legal proceedings. “As congregants were returning home… they were attacked by four youth wielding homemade acid bombs contained in water bottles. One man sustained injuries to his eyes and leg. He was taken to the nearest hospital.”

The matter was reported to police immediately, and top provincial officers are handling the investigation. But the community remains confused and frustrated over one key issue: why was one of the alleged attackers released without charges?

“Three of the teenagers ran off. One barricaded himself behind a security gate. Police were called, but it took hours for them to arrive,” Moosa explained. “The youth was taken into custody, but it is believed that he was released an hour later. To date, no arrests have been made.”

For decades, Muslims and non-Muslims have coexisted peacefully in Tzaneen, making the attack all the more unsettling.

“It is a diverse, multicultural society within which we live. There is no place for hatred,” Moosa said. “Members of the community have been called to practice dignity, respect and compassion in this trying time.”

The South African Muslim Network (SAMNET) has condemned the attack and is demanding that police treat it as a hate crime, meaning the investigation must be prioritised and cannot be treated as an ordinary petty crime.

There was a time when a petrol station meant one thing: fuel, perhaps a Coke and a chocolate before getting back on the road.

Now you can order a Wagyu burger, sit down for pizza, buy imported sauces, grab a flat white and stay far longer than it takes to fill your tank.

I spent the day at a Johannesburg petrol station that looks and feels nothing like the ones many of us grew up with. Inside, I met the owner of Relish, a full-scale restaurant operating within a forecourt convenience space. What I found was not just about good food. It was about margins, shifting consumer behaviour and the quiet reinvention of retail.

Retail remains one of the biggest contributors to South Africa’s economy. In 2025, retail sales grew by close to 4%, reinforcing how central consumer spending is to jobs, household income and economic momentum. But the way people are spending is changing.

Fuel margins are tightly regulated and relatively thin. Petrol alone does not make a forecourt highly profitable. The real money sits inside the store — in coffee, hot food, groceries and higher-margin convenience products. That is why concepts like Pantry by Marble have emerged, turning petrol stations into hybrid retail and hospitality spaces. It is no longer just about topping up your tank; it is about capturing more of your daily spend in one stop.

Muhammad Patel, known as Chef Mo, the executive chef at Relish, describes it as a response to how people live now. “The shift in how people have interacted in Johannesburg, and in the world, has changed,” he told me. “It’s become a very fast-paced environment. People are looking for convenience right on their doorstep.”

One of the most telling insights from our conversation was that consumers are not necessarily spending more. “Spending differently,” he said plainly. In a constrained economy, big luxury nights out feel harder to justify. But smaller, accessible premium experiences still work: a quality burger, a well-made coffee, a casual meal shared with friends in a space that feels elevated but not intimidating.

Globally, research shows a shift away from buying things towards spending on experiences. Dining, connection and shared spaces are increasingly valued over possessions, especially when large purchases feel out of reach. In Johannesburg, that shift is playing out in unexpected places. Petrol stations are becoming casual social environments — less formal than fine dining, less performative, more accessible.

Young people in particular are using these spaces as meeting points. You do not just fill up; you sit, chat and stay. The fuel stop becomes part of a broader social routine. As Muhammad put it: “You can sit and hang out with your mates. You can grab a coffee, a pizza. You’re not in a fine-dining environment. It’s casual.”

Premium offerings inside a petrol station may sound contradictory, but the strategy is deliberate. Quality has to justify the price, and pricing has to reflect the surrounding demographic. “Premium works,” he said, “but affordability as well. You need to be at the right price point.” You cannot build a fine-dining concept in a space designed for speed. It has to be quick, consistent and convenient.

The investment is significant. The space I visited seats around 100 people and, according to Muhammad, between 1,000 and 2,000 customers move through the broader store on a busy day. “It’s a project that’s big. It’s not a small project,” he explained, describing the scale of operations required to maintain consistency in a high-traffic environment. That level of foot traffic requires capital, operational discipline and constant adaptation. Not every concept will succeed. Location, income profile and execution matter.

What is emerging is a hybrid retail model: part fuel station, part restaurant, part grocery store and part social hub. These spaces function as what many would call a “third space” — somewhere between home and work. In a city like Johannesburg, where time is scarce and traffic is constant, convenience becomes currency. If you can fill up, eat, meet and shop in one location, you are saving time while creating an experience.

For business, that translates into longer dwell time, larger basket sizes and stronger brand loyalty. For the economy, it signals how urban retail is adapting to consumers who are financially cautious but still value quality and connection.

Petrol stations are no longer purely functional infrastructure. They are becoming micro-retail ecosystems built around behavioural shifts.

The story is not just about pizza next to a pump. It is about how everyday spaces are being redesigned to meet a consumer who wants efficiency, accessibility and experience in one place.

And if that trend continues, the humble petrol station may offer an early glimpse into the future of urban retail in South Africa.

Aisha Paklele knows this experience well. When she became Muslim, she says, she never felt alone during Ramadaan.

“When I became a Muslim, I had a lot of Muslim friends. Everyone was inviting me for Iftar. Everyone was fighting for me. So I have never had a thing of feeling lonely during Ramadan,” she explains.

Her friend’s experience was very different. When her friend became Muslim, she had no one nearby. She spent her evenings alone while everyone else shared meals with family and friends. Watching this, Aisha decided she could not let anyone feel that kind of loneliness during Ramadaan.

“So I started this Iftar Tribe because my friend was lonely,” Aisha says. “I was far from her and I said to myself, I don’t want anyone feeling alone in Ramadan. Especially reverts.”

Iftar Tribe is more than just a meal. It is a space for connection, for laughter, for conversation, and for community. Aisha describes it simply:

“Iftar Tribe is for everyone. Old, young, Magogo, Muslim, non-Muslims. You don’t need a membership. You come as you are. Join our group chat. Follow us on TikTok. Let’s break our fast together. Bring a friend. Dates and water will be provided. Come with a platter. Bring your own prayer mat and join us for Iftar. You are going to laugh. You are going to smile. And you are going to enjoy your day.”

The initiative is one of many that are hoping to make Ramadaan less lonely for those who might otherwise spend it in silence. By creating spaces for shared meals and conversation, initiatives like Iftar Tribe are reminding us that community can be built, one sunset at a time.

“Ramadan Mubarak to you and your family,” Aisha says. “May Allah accept our duas, prayers, fasts and ibadah. May this month bring us closer to Allah and closer to each other. Peace be upon you.”

I went to meet her at the ice rink, and I will admit I was nervous. This was my very first time on ice. “I’m here at the ice rink for my very, very first time,” I said. “I’m going to skate for my very first time and I’m so, so excited.”

Dudu laughed at my wobbling attempts. Then she shared her story. “I started figure skating three months postpartum and it was just something that came out of nowhere. I don’t know why I started this and it just kind of like fell from the sky, from the sea, so maybe divine intervention.”

She is not just skating for herself. “I’m self-taught. I never stopped ever since and I love it so much. When I’m on ice, I feel like time does not exist,” she said. You can see it in the way she moves, in the energy she brings, and in the joy she radiates.

Dudu is also a national championship qualifier, a yoga coach, and a television personality. What she is teaching beyond medals is even bigger. “We tend to put age as a limitation so much as society and we obsess about age. You can do anything. You can start any skill at any age. Your energy, your energy, your aura is your real age. It is all about how you are feeling, not about the age.”

By the end of the session, I had fallen more times than I could count. And yet, it was amazing. Every slip, every wobble, every laugh reminded me of what Dudu had shown me that day. Dreams are always there. They wait. Age is just a number.

He arrived with a backpack and immediately began setting up a makeshift stall on our office table. He unpacked containers of sweets one by one, lined them up neatly, and put on gloves before touching anything. Every move was precise. At one point, he glanced around and joked that, given our location, he might have to raise the price of his sweet bundles. Even in a casual visit, the business mindset was on.

“It is being the next Elon Musk from Soweto,” he said, and you could see he meant it.

Koketso is a third-year business management student at the University of Johannesburg, based at the Soweto campus. Students know him for selling sweets, noodles, and study hampers, especially during exam season. But his entrepreneurial journey started long before university.

“It all started in Grade 9 during the time of COVID-19,” he explained. He walked roughly eight kilometres to school and back each day just to save thirteen rand. That small saving became his first capital. That high school hustle grew with him and carried him into university.

In his backpack, alongside the sweet containers, he carries one notebook. Lectures in the morning, sales in the afternoon. “So me, it’s theory to application, application to theory,” he said. What he learns in class is applied immediately in real life, where pricing, demand, and customer behaviour are lessons in action.

Unemployment in South Africa shaped his thinking early. “I’m selling because of the unemployment rate. I saw that as an opportunity,” he said. He didn’t wait to graduate into uncertainty; he started building while still in school and kept growing as he moved through university.

He draws inspiration from entrepreneurs like Theo Baloyi, DJ Sbu, and Vusi Thembekwayo. Last year, he started Peasant Kids in his township in Soweto, mentoring over twenty young people. He buys containers for them and teaches them to sell sweets while learning practical business lessons.

“We’re doing practical sales of sweets and they’ll be learning varieties of lessons practically,” he said.

By the end of the visit, the sweets were almost secondary. The backpack, the notebook, the gloves, and his vision were what remained.

“It is being the next Elon Musk from Soweto,” he repeated. This time it didn’t sound like ambition. It sounded inevitable.

Cyclone Fytia formed over the Mozambique Channel in late January and intensified as it moved east. When it hit Madagascar, at least 12 people lost their lives. Roads were washed away. Bridges were waterlogged. Trees were ripped from the ground. What little infrastructure existed in some communities simply gave in.

But what stayed with me was not only the destruction. It was the exhaustion.

The Malagasy people I met were calm, almost quiet in their suffering. There was no dramatic display of anger. No real chaos. Cyclone Fytia felt less like a shocking event and more like something familiar. Almost like another blow in a country that seems to absorb more than its share.

Before I arrived, I had read the World Bank’s country report on Madagascar. Nearly 80 percent of the population lives in poverty. Child malnutrition is widespread. The country struggles with low tax revenues, weak investment and repeated climate shocks.

Reading that report in Johannesburg felt clinical. Seeing it in Mahajanga felt different. The statistics were no longer numbers. They were faces.

In Antananarivo, the capital, there are signs of economic activity. Markets move. Cars fill the roads. There is noise and some sense of momentum. In Mahajanga, the energy feels thinner. The cyclone deepened what was already fragile.

I travelled with the Salaam Foundation, which distributes aid in places the world rarely focuses on.

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I had been with them before in a remote village in the mountainous south of Yemen, where running water was scarce and daily survival required extraordinary resilience. At the time, I thought that was the worst poverty I had witnessed.

Madagascar challenged that belief.

Here, poverty is not concentrated in one forgotten pocket. It stretches across communities. It lingers. You see it in the long queues of women waiting patiently for a bag of rice. You see it in the numbers. Thousands arrived for food parcels intended for a few hundred families. The need was overwhelming.

We visited hospitals and distributed rice to families of patients with Mpox. We met mothers who had just given birth and were already worrying about their next meal. The rice, they told us, would help them rebuild after the cyclone. It would buy time. Nothing more.

Over the years, I have reported on poverty and climate crises.

I have interviewed policymakers and written about structural inequality. But walking through Madagascar, I kept asking myself whether we truly understand how vulnerability compounds vulnerability. How one shock lands on top of another, leaving very little space to recover.

A week before, I had been in Doha, Qatar, one of the richest countries in the world. I was attending a series of summits where global leaders and thinkers debated the future. The language was full of artificial intelligence, automation and innovation. There was excitement about what technology would solve next.

In Doha, poverty is not visible. Public spaces are orderly. Systems function seamlessly. The vulnerable are not on the streets. Everything appears managed.

In Madagascar, there is no buzz about AI. There is urgency about clean water. There is no talk about robots transforming daily life. There is a rush for rice.

The contrast unsettled me.

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This is what climate inequality looks like in practice. Countries that contribute least to global emissions face the harshest consequences. Storms grow stronger. Infrastructure fails. Recovery is never complete before the next disaster strikes.

I left Madagascar angry and frustrated. Angry at how normal this has become. Frustrated at how easily global attention moves on. I felt an even deeper responsibility to keep telling stories about people who are too often overlooked.

Then, as I landed back in Johannesburg, news broke that another cyclone was heading towards the island.

Cyclone Gezani has since torn through parts of Madagascar. More than 20 people have so far been confirmed dead. The national meteorological service warned of widespread flooding, flash floods and landslides as it moved across the central highlands. Red alerts were issued in several regions. Residents described electricity outages and severe damage to homes. One person told AFP that everything was devastated, that roofs had blown off and walls had collapsed.

It is hard not to feel disheartened. But despair does not change anything.

If anything, these repeated storms remind us that care cannot be occasional and that attention cannot come only when disaster images trend online.

If we are serious about building a better future, whether through technology or policy, that future must include places like Mahajanga. Otherwise, we are not imagining progress for everyone. We are simply deciding who gets left behind.

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Qaanitah’s trip to Madagascar was part of a humanitarian effort led by Salaam Foundation. To support our journalism and to help us tell untold stories email debrief@thedebriefnetwork.com.

“Sport is more than just a game,” says Moshibudi Piet, Executive Director at Coolplay. “For thousands of kids in South African townships, it’s a safe space, a classroom, and sometimes the only place they’re seen and heard.”

The reality these children face is stark. “What we found is that children from underprivileged communities experience at least eight traumas a year. That’s 100 traumas by their 16th birthday,” Moshibudi explains. For many, the challenges at home or in their communities can feel overwhelming but Coolplay provides an alternative.

“We’ve been able to navigate those circumstances and teach the children emotional regulation,” he says. “We teach them how to work as a team and how to function with other people so that they thrive in life.”

The lessons run deeper than teamwork or sportsmanship. “Sports taught me that. It taught me to be a better person. It taught me to be resilient and hard-working as well,” Moshibudi reflects.

The impact is built on community. “Our organisation serves 2,500 children weekly, with 36 champion coaches from the communities we serve. Our champions come from the same backgrounds as the children. They speak their language, they know their struggles,” he adds.

Through sport, coaching, and community, Coolplay helps young people find the support and alternatives their environment may not always provide.

This problem is what inspired Hoosein Moolla to create iTutorSA.

Hoosein is a self-taught software engineer, but his work with learners began long before he built the app. For many years, he tutored learners individually as a hobby and a passion. During that time, he repeatedly noticed the same pattern. Learners were not falling behind because they were lazy or incapable. The education system simply moved on even when students did not understand.

Private tutors are expensive, classrooms are overcrowded, and many learners do not have anyone to help them at home. Hoosein wanted to build a solution that could provide support exactly when learners needed it.

He explains, “Our vision is simple. We want to give every South African learner, regardless of background, access to a tutor who is patient, knowledgeable, and always available. If we can change the way one child experiences learning, we can change their future.”

This vision became iTutorSA, an AI-powered tutoring app created specifically for South African learners.

Hoosein describes the app, saying, “iTutorSA is designed to help students understand their schoolwork step by step, according to their own curriculum, and at their own pace. Whether learners are stuck on homework, revising for exams, or trying to close learning gaps, the app functions like a patient, one-on-one tutor that is always available.”

The app is different from most education apps because it does more than display content. Hoosein says, “Most education apps simply present information and move on. iTutorSA identifies what a learner is missing, explains it in simple language appropriate to their grade and curriculum, and then provides targeted practice with immediate feedback.”

iTutorSA supports learners from Grade R through Grade 12, and it works across all major South African languages. It covers essential subjects, including mathematics, physical sciences, life sciences, and accounting. The content aligns with CAPS, IEB, and SACAI curricula, and the app also offers NBT support for students preparing for university entrance exams.

“The goal of the app is for learners to open it and immediately understand what to study next,” Hoosein explains. “It allows them to approach their studies with confidence, knowing exactly where they are and what comes next.”

Hoosein emphasizes that iTutorSA is not designed to replace teachers. He says, “This app is intended to support learners when they are alone, struggling, and when teachers are not able to provide immediate help. Teachers do incredible work, and iTutorSA exists to complement that work rather than replace it.”

In a South African education system under pressure, iTutorSA aims to meet learners where they are. The app provides support at home, on a learner’s own schedule, during the moments when confusion can turn into falling behind.

For Hoosein, the central idea is access. He believes that every learner, not just those who are privileged, should have the opportunity to receive guidance and support whenever they need it. iTutorSA exists to provide that opportunity to all learners across the country.

“You would think Malagasy people are hated by God,” our guide joked as we landed in Antananarivo.

It was a dark joke, but one rooted in the grim reality of an island nation battered by a relentless cycle of natural disasters, failed governance and deepening hunger.

Madagascar has endured repeated bouts of extreme weather, persistent poverty and now political upheaval. A cyclone hit the north-west of the country just over a week before I arrived, the latest in a series of climatic shocks that have compounded an already fragile economy.

Driving from the airport to our hotel, life in the capital, affectionately known as Tana, appeared deceptively ordinary.

The city feels like a time capsule. Narrow roads are clogged with ageing cars, many dating back to the 1980s, traffic barely moves, and people hustle through their daily routines. Yet beneath this familiar urban rhythm, economic activity feels subdued, even by regional African standards.

For context, Madagascar’s gross domestic product stands at around $19.38 billion. Johannesburg alone, not South Africa as a whole, has a GDP of roughly $76 billion, almost four times larger.

I learnt that agriculture remains the backbone of the Madagascan economy, with some mining and limited tourism. But poverty is unmistakable, visible across the capital and far more severe when we travelled north to the coast.

I came to Madagascar with two overlapping interests. The first was political. The country’s failure of governance and entrenched corruption culminated in the toppling of President Andry Rajoelina last October. The second was environmental. Madagascar’s vulnerability to climate shocks, underscored most recently by Cyclone Fytia, has turned the island into a case study in climate injustice.

As we crawled towards Hotel Le Fred, our driver pointed out two abandoned cable car stations which stand as monuments to state inefficiency under Rajoelina.

Once touted as Africa’s longest cable car system, the project was meant to symbolise Malagasy modernity and development. Instead, it became a symbol of elite disconnect.

I learnt that the cable car opened in August last year, costing the city almost $200,000 a month in electricity bills alone, in a place where reliable power supply is a luxury most residents have never known.

It begs the question that in a country where more than 80 percent of Malagasy people live below the poverty line, who would afford a luxury of a cable car.

While the project did not single-handedly trigger the protests that erupted in Antananarivo in September 2025, it crystallised public anger towards a leadership perceived as self-serving and indifferent.

As we drove past, we saw that the cable car buildings now sit empty as new authorities debate their fate.

Madagascar entered my political orbit last October when what began as a youth-led protest movement morphed into what resembled coup. But the label coup is still debated here and across the continent.

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Inspired by global Gen Z mobilisation, young people organised through Facebook groups and other social media platforms, demanding accountability amid worsening living conditions.

The immediate spark was the violent arrest of opposition municipal councillors who had demanded Senate intervention on water and electricity shortages.

At the time, residents were enduring electricity cuts of up to 12 hours a day, alongside regular water outages.

The situation was grim- even for South African standards where we endured regular loadshedding.

According to the World Bank, more than half of businesses reported power outages last year, averaging over six outages a month and costing firms nearly a quarter of their annual sales.

The protests escalated when the military became involved.

By October, the parliament voted overwhelmingly to impeach Rajoelina, and the High Constitutional Court installed army chief Colonel Michael Randrianirina as president.

While the world raised their eyebrows, Randrianirina insists his rise to power was constitutional. The African Union disagreed and suspended Madagascar under its policy against unconstitutional changes of government.

I found it interesting that the Southern African Development Community (SADC) took a different approach.

It decided to engage and ended up supporting Randrianirina’s promise to restore democratic civilian rule within two years.

A month ago, Randrianirina briefed President Cyril Ramaphosa in Pretoria. That meeting angered many, particularly within the AU in Addis Ababa, where critics argued that South Africa should not legitimise an unelected government.

But for ordinary Malagasy people I spoke to in Antananarivo, the political drama felt distant. Life continued much as before. Power still rested with elites.

On the day I arrived in Tana, African Union Commission chairperson Mahmoud Ali Youssouf reaffirmed the AU’s support for Madagascar, citing a briefing from the organisation’s special envoy who reported progress on inclusive political dialogue and some positive economic indicators.

Whether Madagascar is readmitted to the AU will likely be debated when African heads of state meet later this month.

Experts I spoke to were less concerned with terminology and more with timelines.

Whether Rajoelina’s removal qualifies as a coup matters less, they said, than how quickly democratic civilian governance is restored. For most Malagasy people, these debates remain abstract. Survival is the priority.

Flying into Mahajanga with the Salaam Foundation, the devastation left by the cyclone was unmistakable. Southern Africa has been hit by extreme weather at the start of 2026.

We have covered flooding in Limpopo, Mpumalanga and Mozambique. But my journey to Madagascar was driven by a desire to tell the stories of people the world routinely forgets.

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Global discussions about climate change often remain academic. Concepts like climate apartheid describe how the poorest populations suffer the worst impacts despite contributing almost nothing to global emissions. Madagascar is the embodiment of that reality.

Despite accounting for just 0.09 percent of global greenhouse gas emissions, Madagascar ranks among the five most climate-vulnerable countries in the world. Cyclones, droughts and erratic rainfall have devastated food systems. In Mahajanga, the consequences were raw and immediate.

Poverty was everywhere. The statistics are stark. An estimated 1.7 million people face acute food insecurity. More than 38 percent of children suffer from chronic malnutrition.

These numbers translate into scenes that stay with you. People waiting for hours for a 10-kilogram bag of rice. Others sweeping fallen grains from the ground to wash and eat.

Politicians and global leaders speak earnestly about climate resilience, climate-smart agriculture and renewable energy investments. These conversations matter. But for Malagasy families, food is not a far off policy challenge. It is a daily question of survival.

If there is a place where climate apartheid is not a theory but a lived reality, it is Madagascar.

And in a world increasingly obsessed with artificial intelligence and technological breakthroughs, the fact that dry rice remains scarce in places like this should trouble us deeply.

Madagascar deserves better from its leaders. It also deserves better from the world.

Qaanitah Hunter is the founding editor of The Debrief Network. Her trip to Madagascar was part of a humanitarian mission led and supported by Salaam Foundation. Find out more about Salaam Foundation’s efforts to reduce global hunger.

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For the Minister of Basic Education, Siviwe Gwarube, the day is a reminder of why early reading matters. “I think what’s really important is to acknowledge World Read Aloud Day,” she said. “Reading is non‑negotiable. When learners understand the language of teaching and learning, they engage more confidently and progress more successfully through the system.”

The minister also challenged the perception that African languages slow literacy development. “For such a long time, we’ve always viewed our African languages as a hindrance to our literacy problem, but in fact, it’s actually an asset,” Gwarube said. She emphasised that partnerships with organisations like Nal’ibali are crucial, especially in schools and communities where resources are limited. “If we’re not getting children to read and read for meaning, particularly in the early phases, we are never going to get anywhere in the education system.”

Gwarube explained that the focus now is on building literacy from the ground up, rather than trying to fill gaps later. “We’re inverting the entire education system to say that we’re growing it from the ground up, and government can’t do it alone,” she said. She pointed to research, including last year’s Funda Umpumeleli survey, which highlighted how African languages can support early reading development.

Parents and caregivers also have a role to play, the minister said. “I’ve been imploring parents wherever I go to please be involved in your child’s development. Read to your children. Let them read to you. Ultimately, you’re laying the foundation for success in the later stages.”

Nal’ibali’s new South African Sign Language story expands what reading aloud can look like, reaching learners who are Deaf or hard of hearing and making literacy more inclusive. For Gwarube, the message is simple: “If South Africans can get behind this revolution of making sure our young ones start strong, that they’re well-read, we can really turn this country around.”

I went on a little reconnaissance mission to find out why. First stop, Green Dot Cafe in Rosebank. Second, KOHI at 44 Stanley. Both spots take matcha seriously but in completely different ways. And what I discovered isn’t just about a drink. It’s about a market that’s booming, a culture that’s evolving, and the business behind it.

Matcha hasn’t quietly slipped onto menus. In 2024, South Africa’s matcha market raked in R169.1 million and projections show it could double to R342 million by 2033. The growth is driven by urban, health-conscious consumers, with organic matcha leading the charge. A single cup sells for R60 - 75, roughly the same as in Japan, depending on quality and preparation.

At Green Dot, founder Aameera Cassim explained why this green powder is more than a trend. “People’s expectations of drinks are evolving. It’s not just a latte anymore. Customers want something experimental. But while trends exist, you can’t jump on every bandwagon. You risk losing quality and control.”

She also sees opportunity. “With the right market, yes. You could become a millionaire. Just give Gen Z time to grow and catch the wave.”

At KOHI, every cup is a ritual. Matcha is mixed manually, the traditional Japanese way. Machines would be faster but they don’t create the same smooth layers or tactile experience.

“Matcha comes from a culture of mindfulness,” says Felix Matsvai, KOHI manager. “It’s about calm. People come here to pause, not to rush. Life is chaotic enough. The drink should feel like a little moment of peace.”

Demand has been intense. Weekend queues are long but Felix and his team manage it carefully. “You order more supplies, yes, but it’s trial and error. Trends spike and fade. You have to ease into it.”

Even with instant matcha sachets lining supermarket shelves, regulars know the difference between a fresh, hand-whisked cup and something packaged. Purists aren’t worried. And both Aameera and Felix are already scouting what’s next. Hojicha, a Japanese tea with a dark, earthy hue, could be the next wave.

After spending time in these cafés, I understood why the hype isn’t just about aesthetics. Matcha combines craft, culture, and community and there’s real business potential behind the green.

And yes, I may have been recruited. I’m officially a matcha girlie now.

To understand why this moment matters, you have to go back to when Steenhuisen took over. He did not inherit a stable, growing opposition. He stepped into a party that was visibly falling apart. Senior figures were resigning, factions were fighting in public, and the DA was losing both direction and confidence. His first priority was not to win new voters. It was to stop the collapse.

That decision shaped everything that followed. Steenhuisen chose stability over expansion. He focused on holding the party together and protecting its traditional base, even if that meant limiting its ability to grow. The DA stopped bleeding support, but it also struggled to break through its electoral ceiling.

Then came the moment that changed the party’s trajectory entirely. In 2024, Steenhuisen led the DA into the Government of National Unity. For the first time, the party moved from opposing the ANC to governing alongside it. For supporters, it was pragmatic and mature. For critics, it blurred the DA’s identity and raised uncomfortable questions about what the party stood for.

Once in government, the scrutiny intensified. As Minister of Agriculture, Steenhuisen faced real world tests, including foot and mouth disease outbreaks that drew complaints from farmers and industry bodies about slow responses and poor coordination. The criticism was no longer ideological. It was about performance.

Inside the DA, tensions deepened. Decision making became more centralised, dissent became harder to manage, and disagreements increasingly spilled into public view. The credit card controversy, even though internal processes cleared him, damaged the party’s clean governance image and weakened internal trust. When senior figures began accusing Steenhuisen of being too close to the ANC, it confirmed what many already suspected. The leadership had fractured.

If Steenhuisen does step aside, it will not be because of one scandal or one misstep. It will be because of accumulation. The weight of governing, internal conflict, and the cost of holding together a party navigating its most complex phase yet.

The DA is now standing on the edge of a transition. And whatever comes next, Steenhuisen’s time at the helm will be remembered as one of the most consequential and contested chapters in the party’s history.

At just 15, Moriri has been selected for South Africa’s Under-19 Women’s T20 World Cup squad, set to compete in Bangladesh next year. She is one of the youngest players to earn national colours, marking a major milestone in a rapidly rising career.

Her entry into the sport was informal and unplanned. “My first friends used to play cricket, so I used to go with them,” Moriri says. “Then I realised that I’m passionate about the sport and I love being there.” What started as curiosity soon became commitment, shaped by consistent training and a growing belief that cricket could become a professional path.

Still, the speed of her progress has taken her by surprise. “I wished to go pro, but I didn’t think that I would start experiencing it at such a young age,” she says. “My coach always says, hard work pays.” That work has now been rewarded with a national call-up that could redefine her future.

We caught up with Moriri at a training session in Houghton, Johannesburg, where preparations are underway for what she describes as a life-changing opportunity. “Playing for South Africa would actually mean a lot for me,” she says. “Because I’ll be able to change my home situation, move my mother from the township, and help other kids from my academy who are looking up to me as their senior player.”

For Moriri, this moment extends beyond personal achievement. It reflects a shift in how women’s cricket is investing in young talent. “They’ve started supporting younger players,” she explains. “There’s now a system at club level that identifies players who are ready for provincial teams.”

That early exposure, she says, is preparing players for the professional game. “Younger players are introduced into provincial settings early, which helps prepare us for the pro level.”

When the reality of her selection settled in, excitement followed. “I couldn’t hold myself. I was overexcited and I couldn’t wait to go there, see what they’re doing and learn more,” Moriri says. Once inspired by the greats she watched from the sidelines, Mankwana Moriri is now stepping onto the international stage herself.

Some South Africans, however, weren’t comfortable giving it a public platform. Activist Herman Eloff, who raised concerns with local distributor Filmfinity, says the decision isn’t about censorship. “I’m not saying ban the film. This isn’t about censorship. It’s about ethics, and having an understanding of what’s happening in the world, and not supporting Trump or anything linked to him,” he explains.

The documentary has also drawn criticism because of its director, Brett Ratner, who faced sexual misconduct allegations in 2017. Eloff says the combination makes the screening in public spaces problematic. “When someone is that closely connected to such a powerful political family, the image being put out there is obviously going to be a sanitised one. There isn’t going to be an objective view here. It’s going to be a cleaned-up version of her story,” he adds.

He argues that cinemas and distributors carry responsibility when choosing what to show. “These are big platforms. So the question is, what do we want to use them for? And what responsibility comes with screening certain films in public spaces?”

After complaints, the documentary was removed from local cinema schedules, though it will still be available on streaming services. For activists, the point was never to ban the film—but to make sure public spaces aren’t automatically amplifying content they question.

The larger conversation remains: when it comes to public platforms, who decides which stories are given space—and what responsibility comes with that choice?