Once upon a time, under the hopeful sun of 1994, a city named Johannesburg — City of Gold, Queen of the South — walked down the aisle to wed a suitor called the Party of Liberation. Their union was blessed by millions who gathered in the streets, singing freedom songs and dancing on pavements still wet with the rain of a long-awaited spring.
In those early years, the marriage blossomed. Johannesburg’s streets pulsed with new life — skyscrapers reached higher, the mines roared with promise, and the world’s wealth poured into her palms. She became the richest city in South Africa, the richest on the continent, her crown jewel gleaming proudly as Africa’s Richest Square Mile in Sandton glittered like a diamond at her brow.
For decades, Johannesburg and her husband walked hand in hand. There were quarrels, as in any marriage — moments of betrayal, neglect, broken promises — but each time, they renewed their vows, remembering why they had chosen each other when the chains of oppression fell.
But as the seasons turned and new voices rose with new promises, Johannesburg’s heart wandered. She listened to suitors whispering sweet nothings in her ear — promising better roads, brighter lights, safer nights. Tempted by their words, Johannesburg asked for a divorce. She turned her back on her first love and entered into a new marriage of convenience with many partners — none fully committed, all vying for her favour, each tugging at her gown with empty hands.
The new household was chaotic. The streets cracked and split like the lines of a broken heart. Traffic lights flickered and died; water pipes wept beneath the ground. Once-clean parks withered under careless watch. Johannesburg’s beauty faded, her splendour dulled, her proud towers casting shadows over potholes and garbage heaps.
In the chambers of her city hall, bickering suitors fought for scraps while she watched her dreams erode. Her children — the people who loved her — looked on in despair as the Queen of the South dimmed, weary and betrayed.
One night, beneath the same stars that had witnessed her wedding vows, Johannesburg wept. She remembered the Party of Liberation, her first husband — not perfect, never perfect — but hers. The one who stood beside her when the world still called her forbidden, who lifted her veil and called her beautiful.
So Johannesburg stood tall again, brushed the dust from her golden skirts, and filed for divorce from her faithless suitors. She sent word to her first love: Come home. Let us remember who we are. Let us mend what we broke, forgive what we must, and build again.
To her people, she whispers now: Let us stand by our vows — in sickness and in health, in cracks and in beauty, in potholes and in glass towers. Let us polish Africa’s Richest Square Mile until it gleams again. Let us celebrate our beauty as it matures, knowing that true splendour is not in fleeting youth but in endurance, in wisdom, in faithfulness.
And so, when Johannesburg turned back to her first love — the Party of Liberation — she found him changed too. The years had weathered him, humbled him, taught him bitter lessons about betrayal, greed, and the cost of forgetting vows once made in the euphoria of freedom.
He did not come back with trumpets and fanfare. He did not stand on street corners shouting promises into hungry ears. No — this time, he returned quietly, resolute but media-shy, shunning the cameras and the easy applause of populist rhetoric. He had learned that bright slogans could never fix broken roads, that chants could not keep streetlights burning, that flags and posters could not clean poisoned rivers or sweep rubbish from city streets.
Johannesburg, once skeptical, watched him closely. She saw him working in the shadows of her skyscrapers — repairing what was broken brick by brick, pulling weeds from her forgotten gardens, steadying the cracked foundations of her infrastructure. He no longer sought to charm with words alone; he sought to heal with work done humbly behind the scenes.
While others sought the limelight, he met with those who knew how to fix the pipes, patch the roads, and power the streetlights. He called forth old architects, young engineers, tireless nurses, patient teachers — his quiet army of builders, guardians, and dreamers.
He spoke softly in council chambers and late-night planning sessions, reminding them that the children of Johannesburg — their offspring — deserved a city not littered with broken promises but rich with opportunity, dignity, and pride.
Johannesburg felt something deep in her chest stir again — a glimmer of that early love when her skyline rose fearlessly toward the sun. She saw that this man — imperfect, battered by time and scandals past — now stood before her not as a boastful suitor, but as a devoted husband ready to mend what he once allowed to fray.
To her people, she now pleads:
Stay with him this time. See past his scars and missteps. Do not trade the slow work of substance for quick words that fade with the morning headlines. Be patient as he rebuilds our golden city, for though he is media shy, his hands are calloused with honest labour, and his heart is tethered to our well-being.
Let Johannesburg grow older with grace, her beauty seasoned by struggle, her wealth protected by wisdom. Let her streets hum again with promise — not just for the powerful but for every child who calls her home.
And as she stands once more in the heart of the continent — Africa’s Queen crowned with the gold of her mines and the grit of her people — may she hold fast to her vow: In sickness and in health, in struggle and in splendour, I am yours and you are mine.
May the world see her rise — not because of slogans or fleeting lovers — but because she chose to stand, steadfast, beside the imperfect love who chose, again and again, to stay.
Johannesburg, may you never again forsake your vows. May you stand on your own golden feet, crowned by your mines and your people’s dreams. May the world see you — not as a ruin of broken promises — but as the Queen of the South, who loved deeply, stumbled bravely, and chose, again and again, to rise.
Tujenge Afrika Pamoja! Let’s Build Africa Together!
Enjoy your weekend.
Saul Molobi (FCIM)
PUBLISHER: JAMBO AFRICA ONLINE
and
Group Chief Executive Officer and Chairman
Brandhill Africa™
Tel: +27 11 759 4297
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eMail: saul.molobi@brandhillafrica.com
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