Keywords

I know one day I might get underground and never come back.

Mining is dangerous work. Over the last century and a half, the extraction of gold has come at a price of thousands of lives (Moodie and Ndatshe, 1994). In South Africa, the national government and mining companies are legislated to pay close attention to preventing fatalities and accidents in the formal mining sector. It is well documented that work in the informal sector carries additional health and safety risks, and this is particularly true for informal mining (Cadiz, 2016). Yet the response to accidents in the informal mining sector, by authorities is often to close off shafts, or arrest miners on charges of trespassing or being in illegal possession of minerals. Little attention is paid to regulating informal mining, recognising it as a livelihood strategy and developing appropriate regulatory frameworks to make conditions safer. This approach reflects a position of prioritising property and capital rights over the rights of the poor to a decent livelihood and is also common elsewhere in the world (See for instance how the poor and migrants are squeezed out of informal mining in Indonesia [Spiegel, 2012]).

Informal mining is even more dangerous than industrial mining. As an unregulated sector, statistics are not easily available and much of what happens underground remains hidden from public view. Miners in this study were afraid to report incidents or seek help when things go wrong for fear of retribution from the police, in the form of arrests, fines or an end to their source of livelihoods. This echoes other work which found similar sentiments among the Zama Zama (Johnson, 2016; Ledwaba, 2018). Yet the danger remains real and ever present. Johnson’s report suggests that between 2012 and 2015, 312 people died while informally mining in South Africa, a number that is increasing year on year. Fatalities in informal mining are caused by a number of factors: rock falls, accidents involving the use of explosives, gas poisoning and suffocation. In addition the fierce competition for access to shafts and the antagonistic relationship between miners and police and private security companies employed by mines also results in violent clashes, murders and gang wars. Here in the west of Johannesburg, the smell of danger hangs in the air.

The construction and response to the everyday risks and dangers that miners face in their work and in their communities suggest a general narrative of precarity and disenfranchisement among the urban poor and marginalised in South Africa. In this chapter, I use an example of an underground accident in the mines to critically examining how it reverberates in the lives of the miners creating further risk and uncertainty as they navigate the health care and criminal justice systems. In doing so, I suggest that what is playing out here in the margins of Johannesburg reflects broader patterns of how the state is misdirecting its resources and power to hurt, rather than help the poor. In negotiating the complexities of legality and illegality, this group of miners are engaging with an alternate form of hybrid governance in which formal and informal actors, institutions and processes are the norm.

***

On 2 September 2016, some of the Zama Zama ‘open a belt’, in other words they discover a gold-bearing reef. The rumours go around and around, getting louder, and bolder: “A gold belt has been opened”, and everyone gets prepared to go into the shaft, everybody hurries. On Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday, they all go, alone and in syndicates and with family or new-found friends; the husband and the wife forget their quarrel and they go; those who are working, leave their jobs that day and go; and those with kids leave them with the old neighbour; they all go to the mine. Equipment is hastily put together, supplies are found and bought, and prayers are quickly mumbled. Several entrances to the mines are used and there is a steady stream of men going underground. Above ground, there is excitement and anticipation.

“Did you hear? People were coming out with a 5 litre backet and it will give them R 15,000, Aw!”

R 15,000 means food the whole year, it means the roof will stop leaking, and I can leave my husband who beats me, it means I can marry the woman I love, I can send my kids back home to my mother, I can pay my father’s tombstone and make him proud.

“R 15,000! Aw!”

And so they all hurry, hurry, faster now, bring all the tools, the rumour gets louder, and louder.

“A golden belt has been found!”

On September 6 the excitement has faded into fear and grief. There has been an accident underground. The message is picked up and carried in the air, through frantic calls and text messages, it reverberates through the townships. The families all come running, from Langlaagte park and Tshepisong, Mathole, Braamfisher Sol Plaatjies, Durban Deep, even—Duduza people all Lesotho people, Zimbabwe people, they all come, there are wives and children and uncles and aunties, and neighbours and friends and cousins and they all come to the shaft. They pray, and cry and wait, and wait. The shaft resembles a dark hole of danger, and everybody is afraid.

Now that there has been an accident, everyone turns to prayer and to the Sangomas who are imploring the spirit to turn off the smoke. “Let the bodies of our beloved come out so they can rest in peace, so that they can lay where their forefathers came from”. The crowd sings and chants, hums and nods, dancing as they connect to the spirits. Prayers and sacrifices are offered, oaths are made, and money is pledged.

The Response

It is a beautiful spring day. The sun is warm overhead, but not yet too hot as it will be in a few weeks’ time, the winds of August have calmed down, and the early morning winter frost is just a memory. At the shaft, there is a group of people clustered in a tight circle, chatting quietly and watching the spectacle unfold. Police, paramedics and rescue teams are here. An important Minister from the Department of Mineral Resources has come. There is media everywhere, filming the shaft, and interviewing anyone who want to come in front of the camera. Some young men guffaw at the Minister’s empty promises of supporting the Zama Zama, others admire the luxury German cars of the motorcade that brought him here, a young man tries to get close and is threatened by a protection officer. The Minister goes on and on, how they are there to protect the community, how people need to follow the rules so that no-one gets hurt, “don’t go underground” he pleads. “We will provide for the community, our government will create jobs, look at how many houses we built? If you need anything we are here”, he says, and then he is gone. “What about the people inside”, everyone asks, but their voices remain unheard.

The police take charge and move the crowd out of the way. The shaft is sealed with concrete, the rescue teams say it is too dangerous for them to go underground and leave, and the police try to shoo everyone out of the park. Throughout all this, Sipho remains hidden in plain view, one of crowd lurking around. Then later, when all the officials have gone, and the media have filed their stories, he jumps into action. Quickly, the concrete used to close the mine shaft is blasted open, the barriers erected by the rescue teams and inadequate padlock installed by the police on the park fence are all broken down. Where the rescue teams and police stood a few hours earlier, now stands Sipho, smoking his cigarette, a tattered baseball cap on his head, hands thrust into his pockets. Even when the Minister and the police were here, it was he who held the real authority: whose word was respected, who was able to chase off thieves and rival gangs, and who will organise the help needed underground.

The next day there are crowds of people at the shaft, worried and praying, gossiping and selling. The shaft had been re-opened and Sipho is watching and waiting. The police are back and hover in the background, watching and waiting too. After a few hours, Michael, a 27-year-old Zama Zama, is the first to come out of the shaft that morning. He is restless, wild-eyed with fear and exhaustion, his clothes are torn and he is covered with dust and blood and sweat. Everyone crowds around him and he gesticulates wildly, the words tumbling out: there has been an accident underground, “nobody is moving there”, he says, “some are dead, some, they are alive, and only they can’t move because of the smoke, the smoke stays in your throat and you can’t breathe, and it makes you weak so you have to crawl, lucky you if you can crawl, crawl out then like a baby, up and up the passage until you see the light. But there at the bottom, you can’t see, and it is hot, too hot. My uncle is inside the shaft”, he says, and breaks down crying. But the crowd push forward still more, “what about so and so, and what about so and so?”. They desperately start yelling, their voices catching in the lumps in the throats. Michael is surrounded, and he is overwhelmed. Sipho pushes to the centre and quietly announces, “we have to get them”.

But the rescue teams reiterate that it is too dangerous to continue and they need to secure the shaft before anyone else can go down. A plan is hatched. Baba Mabena and Baba Mulauzi (two Elders) call a meeting with all the family members who are affected by the accident. They take charge making a count of those that are missing and then withdrawing to tray to deal with the police. The discussions take some time, and the crowd get tired and sit down but respectfully watch and wait. There is an ebb and flow to these negotiations, each man takes their time, leaning on a stick, explaining, imploring, quietly at first, and then louder, gesturing wildly and then submissive. The police are listening respectfully as if the Elders were their uncles. Eventually, they move away from the shaft, their silhouettes drawn long by the sun, dancing on the mine dumps as the old men recede, the police van following them. Slowly news of a deal with the police has emerged. The miners will form their own rescue teams, while the police look the other way. The Zama Zama can enter the shaft, but only from the side entrance not the main one, where the media is not watching. There is hope again, and women cry out, as men busy themselves to go underground.

The Sotho people, the Zimbabweans, they all make plans to go underground, everyone united in the same belief: you cannot leave someone in the mine, the ancestors will be angry, now is not the time to be afraid, they need to be courageous. Down they go, slowly, remembering not to “jump any bodies” they find for this will be disrespectful to the dead but to go slowly, treading carefully underground for their own safety and out of respect for their compatriots. Some rescuers are tempted to take the stones they find in the men’s pockets and bury them to retrieve later, but then the smoke comes again, and they too fall down. When no one emerges, yet more rescuers go down and this time they do not search the men’s pockets and they do not take what is not theirs.

As the sun rises overhead and the shadows lengthen, a vigil is set up at the shaft. Florence who worked in the same syndicate as Gloria is here, she has abandoned her street stall nearby to hear about her husband, Eddie, who was inside shaft. Both are Zimbabwean and have been living and working in this community since 2008. As miners come out, she asks about him, describing his stature, naming his home village, and the nicknames he has in this community to help identify him. She hears that he is still alive but not able to walk. And so she prays, harder, louder.

Gradually over the next two days miners emerge from the shaft, dusty and weak, some are being carried and some stumble out, paramedics are summoned and they take the injured to the hospital. As each miner reaches the surface, the crowd sing and praise the Creator, crying out of worry and relief. Late in the day as the sun dips and the chill settles in, another group emerges and Eddie is carried out, he is taken by private car to a hospital. Sipho arranges for the shaft to be watched overnight and a small fire is lit in an old paint tin. Over the next few days, the bodies of miners are brought out, slowly at first and then one almost every hour, dusty, and covered in the rags that the miners, who have turned rescuers, wrap them in. Each one is brought to the surface and identified where possible, carried away by mourners and families. Behind the scenes, Sipho has made arrangements with funeral parlours and embassies for the remains to be carried, and washed and repatriated. Documents are made of those without any, and permits are secured. Money is raised to cover the high costs of paperwork and bribes.

For the poor safety nets come in the form of family and friends, community burial societies and stokvels (informal saving schemes). Bank loans are inaccessible to the poor who have no steady income, or the migrants who have no secure documentation. There are no government emergency grants or additional social security mechanisms available. For those who work in low-waged sectors such as domestic work, gardening, or even retail, it is time to plead for favours from the bosses in the suburbs. These are the voices of the desperate in times of need.

“Ma’am my brother, has died, please can I get R 1, 000; please can I have an advance on my pay, I know it’s still early in the month, please”.

“Please can I take some days off, I don’t know maybe 4 days or maybe 5, it depends on the border, and how quickly the papers come, but I need to go home?”

“My husband, sir, he has died we need to bury him I need to borrow some money please.”

“Yes I need this job but I also need to go, please ma’am”

And for the ones whose bosses say no, or who have no jobs tending the gardens, or cleaning the homes of the middle class and the rich in the neat suburbs down the road and across the town, the loan sharks are there, circling, ready to pounce.

For those that died, this is how it has ended. All the roads have led to this day, this moment. All the hopes for a better future disappear, and all the dreams are crushed. But the struggle for those left behind continues.

Entangled Webs of Precarity

As the spirits do their work of healing and rescuing and returning souls to ancestors, above ground the state brews its own potion. The news is that those taken to hospital have been arrested, and family members, including Florence spend two days and hundreds of rands travelling to several hospitals in the area, pleading with security guards to access wards, trying to communicate with hospital clerks and nurses, turning the other cheek as they are spat on and called makwerekwere.Footnote 1 Finally, they find some of the miners under police guard in nearby Krugersdorp, about an hour further west. After days of waiting, searching and praying, they are confronted by a police guard and denied access to visit their loved ones, to hold their hands and pray by their bedside, to offer some homemade food, to apologise for that quarrel, or perhaps to hug and kiss.

Section 27 of South Africa’s Constitution states “that everyone has the right to have access to health care services, ... and no one may be refused emergency medical treatment” (Government of the Republic of South Africa, 1996). The language is deliberately broad and inclusive to ensure no differentiation between residents and immigrants, between rich and poor. In practice though, access to health care in South Africa for migrants and the poor is complex. The South African healthcare sector consists of a large, underfunded public sector that is responsible for the heath of over 80% of the country’s residents, and a small, well-resourced private healthcare sector that caters to the minority that can afford it. The public health system is crippled by poor administration, underfunding and corruption, and is unable to meet the increasing demands of a growing population that is burdened by malnutrition, disease and substance-related trauma and ill health (Matatiele, 2021).

Access to health care for the poor in South Africa is severely constrained. This is perhaps most sharply illustrated by what would become known as the Life Esidimeni tragedy. In late 2015, the South African government decided to transfer 1,711 patients from various mental health facilities, managed on contract by a private sector partner, Life Esidimeni, into the care of 27 non-profit organisations. This resulted in 144 of the most vulnerable people dying, and 44 people simply falling off the records with no trace of where they are. A subsequent investigation found that none of the non-profits were licensed, that the transfer by the provincial health authority was contrary to the policy set out in South Africa’s National Mental Health Policy Framework, and that a provincial court erred in dismissing an application brought by an advocacy group, to prevent the transfer. In other words, government failed in its duty of care (Ferlito & Dhai, 2018; Life Esidimeni hearing report, 2018). In 2019, The National Prosecuting Authority stated that it had insufficient evidence to prosecute. To date no one has been held responsible for the deaths and suffering of the patients. An inquest into the deaths is currently taking place where evidence is being presented in plain view that demonstrates the multiple failures of government.

For non-nationals including migrants and refugees and asylum seekers, there are additional complexities to navigate in search of health care. The National Health Act and the Refugees Act both emphasise that everyone can access public health care. The Health Act states: “All persons in South Africa can access primary health care at clinics and community health centres” while the Refugees Act provides: “Refugees in South Africa have the same right to access healthcare as South African citizens”. The Immigration Act though which governs all non-nationals who are not asylum seekers or refugees, asks that healthcare staff determine the legal status of patients before providing any non-emergency care, and places a duty on them to report any persons who do not have legal documentation to be in the country. It gets worse though. Given the climate of corruption and xenophobia in the South African public service, even documented migrants, refugees and asylum seekers report being harassed, denied health care, reported to immigration authorities and even detained by police. In essence then healthcare workers and hospitals have become de facto immigration agents, and the right to seek care for migrants is severely constrained by the fear of being persecuted (Scalabrini Centre, 2022).

This is exactly what happened to Florence and her friends. Within the group only one man is undocumented, his asylum permit had lapsed, the rest hold valid work or asylum permits, and one was indeed South African. But the hospital staff decided that they were undesirable: they looked scruffy and poor, they were migrants, informal miners and therefore likely to breaking some law and not deserving of health care. Instead of treating them, they called the police who arrested them.

Over at the Helen Joseph and Leratong hospitals, a similar hustle plays out; other miners who have non-life-threatening injuries are denied admission because they are foreigners. The security and clerks turn them away, but the police intervene as they are under police guard and eventually, they get admitted into overcrowded wards, and dirty beds with no linen, handcuffed to the bed. The bribe to get a bed at Helen Joseph is R 350, over at Leratong its just R 150 because as the rumour goes you will die there anyway. The weary nurses ignore everyone for at least 3 days, threatening to call the immigration authorities for the families unless they produce original immigration permits (the certified copies of their documents that they carry are not deemed valid), and speaking in Sotho, a tongue that many do not understand. Then a man dies at Leratong. Now the doctors are angry because the injuries were not serious, the family learn later that the patient’s wounds had turned septic and that he was not fed for several days. Families arrive to collect the remains and face another battle from the mortuary; providing documents, and passports, work permits, and death certificates, paying undertakers, pleading and appeasing so that their loved ones can be returned to the soil. The land which holds all the riches and all the hope, which has caused all the suffering and the fear, now gets ready to receive the soul and spirit again.

Florence cannot find Eddie in any hospital. She learns from a cleaner at one hospital who is also Zimbabwean that several miners had been discharged and were detained by the police. With a group of six other women, they travel to all the police stations, asking the police offers, “who is in the holding cells, where is so and so?” And they are laughed at, or ignored, and some are arrested because they did not have their permits with them, and others bought chicken and coke for the police officers so they could visit their husbands for a short while. But Florence still does not find Eddie. At the police station, they are unable to see their husbands but they hear that they are in the holding cells and will go to court, likely for a bail hearing.

There is relief for Florence that at least he has been found and is alive. She frantically tries to find a lawyer to help him, and hears of a human rights organisation in the city centre which might help. After waiting for several hours, they turn her down saying that they work only on human rights cases, not on informal mining issues. So at 5am on the day when he is to appear in court, when the sun has just risen and the city is stretching to life, Florence, her neighbour Lizzy and others take two minibus taxis to go to court. It is still early, even for the morning rush and the driver stares at them. But they ignore him and bundled in their blankets, they feel warm and protected. Downtown the city centre is coming to life. Pigeons fly en masse and get ready for a day of squabbling on the sidewalk. The streets have been swept clean the night before, the roads are empty and the sun is beginning to warm the city up. They walk this way and that, this is unfamiliar space for them, and they feel exposed and scared. The Johannesburg Central magistrates court is a short walk away from where the taxi leaves them, on the busy Ntemi Piliso Street, named after the famous jazz musician. It is an impressive three-story building, designed by the English architect John Perry in the 1940s, complete with separate entrances which were once used to segregate entry by race. The exterior of the building has intricate design elements, with granite and stone, and wooden framed doors, leading to a large and grand concourse inside, more than 100 m long with marble columns (Portal, The heritage, n.d). Nearby is a statue of a young Nelson Mandela in a boxing stance, he would frequent this court as a practising lawyer in the city. Many of his clients were disenfranchised Black people facing legal troubles for not holding the correct permits to be in the city or in settling disputes with landlords or employers.

Today the beautiful building is closed in by an ugly steel fence mounted atop a concrete foundation and topped with barbed wire. When Florence and the others arrive one of the many security guards at the courthouse is ending his 12 hour shift, and he sends them to this door, and that line, and instructs them to wait there. They sit on the pavement and pray. They have not seen their husbands since they went underground more than a week ago now. Around them the city stirs to life, a few street traders began setting up their stores on or near the fence of the court building. One elderly woman with a small baby on her back, likely a grandchild carefully turns over 6 crates that have been stored in a nearby shop, covers them gently in cloth and carefully arranges fruits in twos or threes in plastic bowls for her display. Other snacks hang off the fence behind her. Minibus taxis and buses begin screeching up and down the busy street, a new melody now for Bra Ntemi to play to.

Florence and the others are allowed inside the building, and at 8 am in court number 34, the miners connect from prison via video link. First 3 men appear: Oscar, Mike and Tongai who were among the first group of miners who came out of the shaft after the smoke spread and were arrested at the shaft. Eddie was arrested when he was taken to hospital. The judge talks and the lawyers talk back, and the women strain to understand what is going on. Eddie and the others only speak Chigaranga a dialect of Shona, and there is no Shona translator, only English, Afrikaans, Sotho, Xhosa Zulu and Ndebele. It takes long, and the magistrate is getting frustrated. Without identification papers or a fixed address, not much can be done, and the bail hearing is postponed for another 10 days. The court has promised to bring a Shona translator the next time.

And so it drags on, through the warm spring and into the sweltering summer months. Eventually, the men are charged with trespassing. The case gets postponed time and time again, “no verifiable address, the copy of the work permit is not clear, the ID looks damaged”, the police cannot find the charge sheet, and at the next hearing they bring the wrong one for another case involving other informal miners. The court appointed lawyer for Eddie seems more interested in his phone than his clients, and requests for a meeting with the family are ignored. Several more hearings are postponed after he fails to show up. By December, the Highveld storms come charging in every evening. Crashes of thunder, and bolts of lightning with heavy downpours send the women rushing back to their homes seeking shelter from the rain; another wasted day in court or in prison, dashing between finding a lawyer, an agent, a fixer, anyone who can help them, visiting their family, bribing the guards to let them in, and hand over food and cigarettes. Sipho is called in eventually and he works his cell phone trying to find someone to help. But the news of the accident has been all over the media and everyone is scared to get involved for fear that they will be arrested or harassed by the police. Eventually, one of the buyers says to Sipho that he may be able to help, but it would not be cheap. His contact negotiates with the police and the lawyer representing the state, money changes hands and the men are finally released in late January after paying an admission of guilt fine of several hundred rands for trespassing.

Access to justice for migrants and the poor, like access to health care is conditional upon local favours and feelings. The rights that they are guaranteed in the Constitution remain theoretical. Instead, each day, each case is determined in its own way, on the whims of those involved: the police whether it is the arresting officers, station commanders or officers responsible for the holding cells; the courthouse clerks, the lawyers, the judges, the queue holders (who hold a spot in the long lines), the private security who guard over the court house or the immigration agents. At each stage of accessing justice, there are corrupt individuals who will either create problems or make them go away (Buur & Jensen, 2004; Hornberger, 2011).

A corrupt criminal justice system further excludes already marginalised groups (Bullock & Jenkins, 2020), making it: “more difficult for them to … participate meaningfully in politics and business” (p. 1) (Bullock & Jenkins, 2020). But it is not just bad news for those who fall victim to it. This form of governing leads to parallel nodes of authority and power, an alternate, dangerous reality based not on laws or formal position, but on informal networks, patronage and corruption.

The People, the State and the Hustle of Governing

Where are our leaders? Do you see them? Ha! All we see is the blue sirens flashing (when the ministerial motorcades whizz by in luxury German cars). I had someone curse me because I bought a plasma TV with my money I made from mining, and my leg was swollen and sore. I went to Helen Joseph (hospital) and the nurses laughed at me and said, ‘this one he is crazy’, and I waited and waited and showed everyone my leg. But no one helped me. One nurse said I am crazy talking about a curse; and another said ‘you worrying us you are problem Zimbabweans, you give us more work’, and the security said he will call the police because they know the Zama Zama like me, we are doing illegal mining. So, I came home and my wife’s sister told me to go see the sangoma, and he cured me, no problem.

The police rob us, from the mine shafts they come and take everything they need, and ask us questions, ‘oh I see you have a new Samsung (cell phone), from where is it? I will confiscate it unless you give me some money’, and if I don’t give the money, they will take it and they beat me also.

Across the Highveld of Johannesburg, stories like these are told and retold. In poor communities on the edge of the city, in townships, and taxis, the narrative is similar: exclusion and injustice, a rhyme that rocks us forward to a new day with its struggles, just as it holds us back in poverty and injustice. It is a story familiar to these lands, steeped in the colonial histories of discrimination, marginalisation and oppression. The architecture of the South African apartheid state enabled corruption. This was a state which deliberately withheld information, censored news, thrived on secrecy and lacked transparency (Camerer, 1997). It paved the way for sustained corruption. Today, corruption and mis-governance perpetuate and intensify the suffering of the poor.

In the communities where the Zama Zama work and live, the role of the state ebbs and flows on its own whim, ever present in its ability to punish for by-law infringements, co-opting private security for informal housing evictions, and conveniently absent when needing to provide services, resulting in an ambiguous relationship between people and their government. This makes for a complex relationship between the poor and the state, and one which calls into question the very notion of citizenship on which modern democracies, including South Africa’s rely. Kabeer (2002: p. 1) writes:

Conventionally, citizenship has been traced to the rise of the nation state and taken to refer to membership of the nation state and the formal duties and rights which membership carries (Shapiro, 2000). This understanding has been contested by those who point out that such membership may mean little to its members in other contexts compared to other forms of affiliation with which they identify.

In modern times, citizenship is also the vehicle through which the state and its people incur duties and responsibilities towards each other, a tool by which people can exercise agency, make their voices heard and hold their leaders to account. But in post-apartheid South Africa, citizenship and in turn governance is diluted by a range of complex, intersecting dynamics.

People of colour including regional migrants, but local Black Africans in particular, were legally excluded from full rights of citizenship during colonial and apartheid systems of rule. Denied basic rights to vote, protest or advocate, people were compelled to seek alternate ways to make their voices heard. They held no faith in elected leaders, how could they when that authority was used to oppress them? Centuries of white colonialism and decades of apartheid also subjected Black communities to severely under-serviced, or completely absent resources in policing, education, health care, housing, recreation and sanitation. Instead people found representation, and access to resources at the local level, with church leaders, community activists, business people and the local underground branches of the exiled political leadership (Sithole, 2015). Invariably these structures were entwined, with political and personal relationships and systems becoming blurred.

Over the decades this morphed into a citizenship of the excluded, an identity and sense of belonging characterised not by rights or laws, but by relationships shaped by local level dynamics, reinforced by the laws of reciprocity, or opportunism, and fuelled by individual personalities rather than official positions. Here, people, like Sipho, loom large, in every community and on every street corner, controlling spaza shops, community centres, jobs, public transport routes for minibus taxis, and providing policing and protection (Meth, 2013).

In 1994, democracy was introduced into this climate, a set of active and complex processes that people had been accustomed to, not into a vacuum on which laws and rules could be imposed upon. And so, what was before, in the deep soils of township politics, and the rhythm and daily lives of the urban poor would nurture what would come after. Moreover, two significant choices by the ANC as governing party in the 25 years since the end of apartheid would sharpen this pathway. First the adoption of a neoliberal macroeconomic policy framework largely crushed any hope of a developmental state and meant that the poor got poorer; and second, corruption took stead at all levels of politics, business and society further dismantling any respite for the poor (Habib, 2005; Segatti, 2013).

And so, a constitutional and democratic order built around a fine framework of rights remained a mirage for the urban poor. Their reality is characterised by a precarious citizenship and a life of intersecting precarity, living on the margins in multiple ways. Economically excluded from jobs in the formal economy or business opportunities, and politically marginalised with pleas for services unheard. As Kabeer asks: “We do not know what citizenship means to people, particularly people whose status as citizens is either non-existent or extremely precarious nor what these meanings tell us about the goal of building inclusive societies”.

For the Zama Zama, governance and citizenship emerge in the form of social mobilisation, an effort to organise society, and to provide access to resources and services. Built entirely on social capital, it begins to redraw nodes of identity and power, creating both room for inclusion for those who fall on the margins of formal governance and drawing new, and sometimes violent boundaries, in excluding others. The governance around a shaft, who control access to it and under what conditions, who provides support, who benefits from what it brings forth, is mirrored in the surrounding informal communities. Here a broader network of local property owners, business people and community leaders have created multiple informal nodes of power and authority. These are the ways in which the Zama Zama are striving to stay afloat. To survive another day.