By Mxolisi Ncube
There was a time when Johannesburg’s inner city appeared to be dying on its feet.
By the early 1990s, many businesses had abandoned the Central Business District (CBD) as companies and wealthier residents relocated to Sandton and the northern suburbs. Rapid urbanisation, deteriorating infrastructure, rising homelessness and vacant commercial buildings left large sections of the city hollowed out.
Then democracy arrived in 1994, bringing with it a new wave of migration from across South Africa, the African continent and parts of Asia.
Like the gold rush that transformed Johannesburg after the discovery of gold on the Witwatersrand in 1886, the promise of opportunity in a democratic South Africa attracted people seeking safety, work and a better future. Refugees fled conflict, entrepreneurs searched for new markets and workers hoped to escape poverty.
Over the next three decades, they helped breathe life back into Johannesburg’s fading CBD.
Migrants helped revive Johannesburg’s CBD
The city’s streets once again pulsed with commercial activity. Traders called out specials from pavement stalls, music drifted from clothing stores and delivery bikes wove through crowds of shoppers searching for affordable groceries, clothing, airtime and household essentials.
This became Johannesburg’s economic heartbeat — not the gleaming corporate towers of Sandton, but the gritty and often grimy commercial centre that has long powered South Africa’s largest city. In the process, Johannesburg regained its reputation as one of Africa’s most vibrant and cosmopolitan commercial hubs, alongside Lagos, Cairo and Nairobi.
For decades, as established retailers migrated to suburban shopping malls, migrant entrepreneurs from China, Pakistan, Ethiopia, Somalia, Bangladesh, Ghana and elsewhere stepped into the gap. They occupied vacant premises, stocked affordable goods, employed local workers and kept commerce flowing through the inner city. But that resurgence now appears increasingly fragile.
This week’s “March and March” mobilisation once again saw businesses closing their doors while some traders fled the city, fearing intimidation and uncertainty.
At the same time, municipal compliance operations, Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department raids, Department of Home Affairs inspections and sustained pressure from anti-immigration groups have created an increasingly difficult environment for many migrant-owned businesses.
Some have already closed permanently. Others have relocated. Many continue operating under constant uncertainty.
Across Bree Street, Small Street and other busy commercial corridors, growing numbers of shuttered shops now stand as visible reminders of that decline.
South Africans lose when businesses close
Supporters of groups such as March and March argue that reclaiming businesses for South Africans will create jobs and stimulate local enterprise. Yet the economic reality is far more complex. When a migrant-owned business closes, South Africans often lose their livelihoods too.
Thirty-four-year-old Teboho Malete worked as a cashier at an Ethiopian-owned clothing store on Bree Street until it shut its doors two months ago.
“I lost my job overnight,” he says. His experience is far from unique.
Thousands of migrant-owned businesses employ South Africans as cashiers, cleaners, security guards, delivery drivers, stock controllers and shop assistants.
A 2015 survey of migrant entrepreneurs operating in Johannesburg found that 263 businesses employed 1,586 people — an average of six workers per business. Of those employees, 503 were South Africans, accounting for 32% of the total workforce and 41% of all non-family employees.
Other studies suggest South Africa’s informal retail sector supports hundreds of thousands of livelihoods directly and indirectly.
When these businesses disappear, the consequences extend far beyond the owners themselves. Employees lose salaries, suppliers lose customers, landlords lose tenants and families lose income at a time when South Africa continues to battle one of the world’s highest unemployment rates.
These are not merely economic statistics. They represent households struggling to pay rent, cover school fees and put food on the table.
The informal economy matters
The broader informal economy also carries enormous economic weight. Some estimates value annual turnover generated by spaza shops alone at between R150 billion and R200 billion, supporting millions of livelihoods through employment, supply chains and consumer spending.
Consumers also bear the cost. For many residents of Johannesburg’s inner city and surrounding communities, migrant-owned businesses provide affordable goods, convenient access and extended trading hours. Many source products competitively and continue serving areas long abandoned by larger retailers.
As more businesses close, residents are forced to travel further for everyday necessities, increasing transport costs while often paying higher prices. The burden falls hardest on low-income households already struggling to stretch every rand.
Property owners are also feeling the impact. Many migrant entrepreneurs rent commercial premises that would otherwise stand empty. In parts of the CBD, landlords receive more than R4,000 a month for small retail spaces, generating income while helping prevent further urban decay. As vacancies rise, rental income falls and neglected buildings deteriorate even further.
The economic consequences extend well beyond individual shops. For years, migrant-owned businesses have purchased stock from South African wholesalers, manufacturers and distributors, paid rent, contributed taxes and created employment opportunities for local residents.
Closing those businesses does not automatically result in successful South African-owned enterprises taking their place. Building a sustainable retail business requires capital, reliable supply networks, long operating hours and the ability to absorb significant commercial risk.
Instead, Johannesburg risks shrinking an informal economy that has long acted as an important buffer against unemployment and economic decline.
Research has consistently found that many migrant-owned businesses remain competitive through collective purchasing arrangements, efficient supply chains, longer trading hours and flexible business models. Rather than simply displacing local businesses, they have become part of a broader commercial ecosystem.
As that ecosystem contracts, Johannesburg risks losing far more than individual shops. It risks losing foot traffic, investment, rental income, employment opportunities and its standing as one of Africa’s leading commercial centres.
Every shuttered storefront creates a ripple effect. South African employees lose wages. Landlords lose paying tenants. Suppliers lose customers. Consumers lose affordable choices. And the city’s streets become quieter, emptier and increasingly defined by rows of closed businesses where commerce once flourished.
A warning for Johannesburg
Among those still trading is Ghanaian clothing retailer Alhassan Bawa, who says uncertainty has become part of everyday life.
“My fear is not simply that I may lose my business,” Bawa says.
“My biggest fear is what will happen to my seven employees, four of whom are South Africans. When the March and March leaders came here last month, they told me to leave and said they did not care who I employed. I showed them my documents, but they still insisted I must leave South Africa.”
His concerns point to a much larger question confronting Johannesburg. South Africa has every right to enforce its immigration laws, combat corruption and ensure businesses comply with legal requirements. But if those objectives are pursued without protecting legitimate enterprises that sustain jobs and economic activity, the country risks damaging the very economy it claims it wants to rebuild.
Johannesburg has experienced decline before. It took decades of entrepreneurship, investment and relentless hard work to restore life to its streets. If that economic ecosystem is dismantled without a viable alternative, Africa’s industrial and commercial capital may once again become what many feared it had become in the early 1990s — a ghost town struggling to find its heartbeat.
