Across Africa, people can no longer afford the cities and neighborhoods they've long called home. OkayAfrica is running This Place Called Home - a series exploring the housing crisis transforming African cities and communities, and what happens when basic shelter becomes a luxury commodity.

In the lush area of Sea Point in Cape Town, which hugs the length of the Atlantic Ocean, there's more than meets the eye. While looking picture perfect from the outside, soaring property prices mean the area is inaccessible to most working-class locals, and instead only geared for tourism. One long-time resident, Sheila Madikane, has lived and worked in Sea Point since 1987. A domestic worker and housing activist, she is one of the leaders of Reclaim the City (RTC), a social movement fighting for affordable housing, and a member of the Ahmed Kathrada House (AKH) occupation, formerly Helen Bowden Nurses Home, in Green Point, just next to Sea Point.

Under apartheid, Madikane recalls moving in with her aunt on St. Johns Road, but due to the restrictions in the apartment, she left the room early each morning to avoid being seen, and bathed using public taps. She eventually found work as a domestic worker and lived at the Mimosa apartments. When their "maid's quarters" were shut down, she struggled to find accommodation for herself, her three daughters, and her grandchild. That's when they moved into the housing occupation. She is now one of the most important voices in the struggle for affordable accommodation.

Madikane became an activist when she realized others faced the same struggles she did. Cape Town's housing crisis has deepened alongside widening inequality. The segregation entrenched by apartheid-era policies like the Group Areas Act of the 1950s pushed poor and working-class families to the city's margins. Today, the inner city remains a space largely reserved for wealthy South Africans and foreign tourists who can afford its soaring property prices. But the citizens are not going down without a fight.

Over the past decade, housing occupations led by civil society movements have surged, demanding access to well-located, affordable housing. The reality is stark. Housing demand in the Western Cape far exceeds supply. Some applicants have waited 30 years on government databases. As of September 2024, the backlog surpassed 400,000. In a country where 10 percent of the population controls 90 percent of the wealth, these occupations represent more than resistance. They are a fight for equity, dignity, and a more equal country.

Women — mothers, grandmothers, caregivers — are often at the forefront of this fight, taking matters into their own hands. They have fought for inclusivity and transformation, and the visibility of these movements has grown significantly, with wins achieved at the High Court and Constitutional Court. The government-owned building (Ahmed Kathrada House) is now home to Reclaim the City (RTC), whose rallying cry is "Land for People, Not for Profit." RTC began as a campaign against apartheid spatial planning, gentrification, and the inner city's housing scarcity, issues still urgent three decades into democracy.

Their struggle began in March 2017, when domestic workers, petrol attendants, carers, nurses, and teachers occupied the provincially owned building. Their action was sparked by then Western Cape Premier Helen Zille's decision to sell the Tafelberg site in Sea Point, which activists had earmarked for social housing. Instead of engaging, the provincial government tried to make conditions unlivable for the occupants by cutting off their electricity.

Madikane, now a key RTC figure, wrote in an open letter to Zille, "I have told you what the Tafelberg site represents to me, and other domestic workers and carers in Sea Point: for us, it is a symbol of hope, a way to desegregate our city; to recognize the struggles of working-class people; to live and work in the inner city. But we have not been heard."

The fight for Tafelberg has been ongoing with housing activists who had a major win at the Constitutional Court last year when the sale of the building was overturned. In May 2025, the Western Cape provincial government revealed its housing plans, which, after years of activists fighting, include plans for affordable and social housing in sections of the building.

In June 2024, the award-winning documentary Mother City, chronicling the ongoing Tafelberg battle, was released. The film follows activists of the RTC movement over six years as they make Cape Town’s abandoned spaces their home and use them as a base from which to lobby for the needs of the working class.

Cissie Gool House (CGH)

That same year, across the city in Woodstock, another occupation was forming in a highly gentrified neighborhood. Housing leader Bevil Lucas, a veteran anti-apartheid activist, was asked to join the occupation of the former Woodstock Hospital, which had been vacant since 1992. A portion functioned as a day hospital until 2018. Lucas, a longtime Woodstock resident, is now part of what is known as the Cissie Gool House (CGH).

He was drawn in by the name "Reclaim the City." "It's something that I could identify with. I felt that this sits well with my political orientation of trying to find a space in which democratic practice can exist and in which social needs of people, such as housing, can and should be delivered," he tells OkayAfrica. Initially hesitant due to health concerns and trauma from state violence under apartheid, Lucas asked himself: "Do you want to get into this again? Are you ready for another round?"

Lucas has no regrets. "The pessimism that I had was completely undone when I moved into the occupation. I think what sparked it was the level of internal organization, the participatory decision-making, the campaigns about land and housing, and the hands-on work it took to make it livable. It's a space where people make their future by participating in it. As an activist, it's very rewarding that you can see how something takes shape by participating in it."

Both AKH and CGH are named after anti-apartheid heroes and emerged in response to the Tafelberg ruling, demanding state accountability. CGH prides itself on its structure and ethos of care. Over 1,000 people now live there in 350 self-built households. Residents and volunteers have ensured access to electricity, water, waste collection, and even vegetable gardens.

Yet, the city wants to sell the site to private developers for mixed-use development and social housing. A move that could displace most CGH residents. Woodstock, like neighboring Bo-Kaap, is a gentrification hotspot. Many locals have already been evicted or priced out of their homes.

The broader fight dates back to the post-apartheid housing advocacy of groups like the Housing Assembly (founded in 2009) and Ndifuna Ukwazi. The latter has provided crucial legal, research, and advocacy support, including the People's Land Map, which identified 2,787 underutilized public sites for potential housing development.

Singabalapha

One of today's most visible acts of resistance is Singabalapha, meaning "We belong here" in isiXhosa. Originally, shack dwellers and backyarders from Langa, Gugulethu, Nyanga East, and Khayelitsha occupied a defunct nursing home in Observatory in September 2019 but were evicted a month later. In defiance, they set up camp on the pavement next door.

They first lived in tents, but were evicted by the city. Soon after, they sought out legal help. In 2020, they had a win in the High Court, which prevented the group from being evicted. Now they reside in informal homes along the main road, highly visible and highly contested. While some call it an eyesore, Singabalapha is a defiant reminder that people won't be pushed back to the townships.

A recent short film captures the hardships residents face. "There is no such thing as freedom for us. We know that. That's why we came out on our own. If you don't do it yourself, no one will," occupier Barbara Vuza says in the documentary.

Vuza moved to the occupation to be closer to the city for work. She had been on the city's housing list since 1985 but received no word back. She lives in Singabalapha with her sister and eight other relatives. She has been one of the leading activists and a spokesperson for the movement.

A space for true democracy

At the core of each occupation is a call for affordable housing near workplaces, schools, and services. Apartheid's spatial planning locked many out of economic opportunity, but these residents refuse to be banished to far-off, underserved areas.

However, perhaps the biggest surprise of all is how these communities have become spaces for actual democratic processes. Meetings guide decision-making. Residents grow food, maintain buildings, and organize together. While much of the country is steeped in radical inequalities, here, against all odds, is a semblance of true community and democracy.

Amplifying voices

Residents say the city still refuses to engage. They have repeatedly asked not to be portrayed as criminals and building hijackers. CGH resident and housing leader Karen Hendricks told a protest crowd, "When we went to occupy Cissie Gool House in 2017, we did it to protest the sale of the Tafelberg site. But we also did it because this city is gentrified. The land is sold to private developers; they are prioritized above the people, the communities, and the neighborhoods that exist. So we are saying here today that we will not have another forced removal like there was in apartheid."

AKH echoes this sentiment in their joint statement. "Ahmed Kathrada House is not just a home. It is where we meet and deliberate on our work and campaigns. It is a place with a view of the sea. We, too, want to live close to where we work; we want to improve our lives, and we want the systems that sustain the status quo to be dismantled. We demand social and affordable housing."

“Hello Jeanie borgat, hello Jeanie borgat, sale ngapha!” The chant — part English, part street slang, part isiZulu — cuts through the other city soundscapes on De Villiers Street, the busy strip running from Johannesburg’s Park Station to the MTN Taxi Rank. Vendors use it to lure customers (“Jeanie” is a playful way of saying “jeans,” “borgat” is South African slang for denim, and “ngapha” means “this side” in isiZulu).

Every inch of the sidewalks is occupied by vendors selling secondhand clothes. The air hangs heavy with the scent of mothballs and kebabs grilling on miniature braai (barbecue) stands. There are no fairy lights here. No gingham bunting or fancy decorations. Just steel racks groaning under the weight of rubble sacks with secondhand clothes that have spent a lifetime earning their wrinkles.

These aren't just garments; they're lifelines. Suits, school shoes, work shirts, and winter jackets with torn linings. They've carried generations of Black South Africans through retrenchments, border jumps, funerals, and first interviews. This isn't a market; it's a hospice — a sanctuary where the poor come to patch their lives together with what others have discarded. Noord Street's thrift stalls have long performed a social service, clothing those left behind by every new season, trend, or political promise.

But there has been a shift lately. What used to cost R20 (about $1.10) now costs R80 (about $4.50). Sellers speak of being "cleaned out" on weekends by kids with tote bags and disposable income. "For resell," they say. What was once for survival is now for style.

It's not the first time secondhand clothing has played a transformative role. During the Great Depression, thrift wasn't fashion — it was a symbol of dignity. Churches and charities in the U.S. and Europe handed down used clothes to help struggling families stay afloat. In WWII, rationing made mending patriotic. The slogan "Make do and mend" was a matter of survival.

South Africa was no exception. Most people lived below the poverty line under Apartheid. Hand-me-downs from siblings or clothes brought by domestic workers from their white employers became Sunday bests. Poverty didn't end with Apartheid. With unemployment sitting at 32.9 percent, "make do and mend" remains a shared identity. Secondhand became synonymous with endurance.

In the decades that followed, global consumerism made thrifting uncool. It became a mark of your pocket's malnutrition. But every few years, culture flips. This time, it came with hashtags. #thriftfinds. #vintagedrip. #thriftfashion. Enter Macklemore's "Thrift Shop" in 2012, a playful anti-brand anthem with a trombone hook that made secondhand a flex. Suddenly, thrifting was proof of taste. Between 2012 and 2017, South Africa'salt scene got swept up in it. Vintage ruled every party, lookbook, and Instagram post. The world changed, but not for everyone.

In 2014, I moved to Cape Town. As a thrift lover, I looked for a De Villiers Street equivalent. Instead, I found a lifestyle. Even in hospice shops, prices were inflated. In Observatory and Woodstock, I saw racks of overpriced denim jackets arranged by aesthetic, not size. Mannequins in the windows wore knitwear with price tags that made you question if you were thrifting to save or to stand out. Incense sticks burned while over-accessorized, dreadlocked white guys in tie-dye worked the counter, each pretentious detail carefully curated.

You're encouraged to browse, linger, and discover. But you won't find the need. These stores aren't built for the poor. They cater to ring-lit students, the pseudo-bohemians — those who perform struggle but never live it. A rusted Levi's jacket costs the same as an electricity bill. "Vintage" corduroy pants could feed a family for a week. The irony is that these very pieces and the culture surrounding them originated from communities where recycling clothes wasn't a trend but a survival tactic.

Back on De Villiers Street, traders feel the pressure. Their lifeline stalls — once overlooked by the middle class — are now raided by trend-savvy hustlers looking to stock shops in Melville, Parkhurst, or Cape Town, or their online stores. Now, the poor compete with the stylish. A domestic worker searching for Sunday shoes for her child finds them marked up — cleaned, maybe — but suddenly out of reach. Thrifting has been colonized.

If Observatory is the seductive face of gentrification's thrift, then Rosebank Market is its smug little sibling. At the Sunday rooftop market at Rosebank Mall, thrift is overpriced and pretentious. Sellers sip kombucha while boasting about "authentic Levi's from 1983" and throwing shade at H&M. Their stalls look like magazine shoots, complete with mirrors, rugs, and handwritten price tags with eco-slogans. They talk about "curating a vibe" like they've discovered a new world. But what they won't say is this: much of that curated stock is bulk-bought from places like Noord Street or Salvation Army shops — marked up, styled, and sold to people who wouldn't dare set foot downtown.

Thrifting has climbed the food chain, and those it once served are now being priced out. The new thrift economy doesn't redistribute; it extracts. This isn't to say people shouldn't thrift or that style should be policed. The climate crisis is real. The fashion industry is a top polluter. Thrifting, at its best, slows consumption and extends life cycles. The world needs fewer landfills and more shared wardrobes. However, here's the catch: the moral high ground becomes murky when sustainability is only accessible to the well-off. When being "eco-conscious" means spending hundreds on a second-hand trench coat. When saving the planet is a privilege.

The real question isn't "Should we thrift?" It's who gets to? Who gains when thrift gets expensive? Who loses when resale platforms like Yaga, Depop, or curated Instagram pages hoard good-quality stock and drive up prices? What happens to the woman who once relied on second-hand school uniforms but now sees them restyled as retro — and unaffordable?

A hierarchy is forming, and like always, it follows class lines. Noord merchants are adapting to demand, which is fair. But the result is clear: the poor are being priced out of the system they built. What we're witnessing is economic gentrification. And like all gentrification, it starts with erasure. The jacket becomes a statement. The scarf becomes vintage. The wearer disappears. The systems of care — the stalls, the markets, the clothing banks — are drained of meaning. In this new thrift economy, memory is optional.

But we must resist that. We must remember: secondhand culture wasn't born on Instagram. It was about warmth. Getting hired. Dressing kids for church. It was an economy of care — a way to stretch thin lives across long winters. So no, this isn't a hit piece on fashionistas or cool kids in Docs. Thrift if you must. But do it with awareness. Know every item has a history, a geography, and a class.