“We’ve got the chance,” she says, and the laughter deepens.

This is, in miniature, what South African Tourism has been orchestrating for three years running. Not the UFC, but the laugh. The ease. The moment when a journalist from Auckland who arrived clutching vague anxieties about safety finds herself at a conference table in Johannesburg admitting, “this is not what I was told to expect.”

Mathibela, functioning as South Africa Tourism’s de facto storyteller-in-chief, at a roundtable with media from Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, shared highlights from the programme that saw 110 travel professionals from these countries fanned across South Africa on eleven simultaneous itineraries, tracing routes through eight of the country’s nine provinces—wildlife reserves at sunrise, coastal towns, cultural heritage sites, community projects, conversations with guides and chefs and conservationists.

The program is called the Mega Lekker Escape, with lekker being the South African slang that sits somewhere between “great,” “delicious,” and “exactly right,” a word that has transcended clean translation precisely because it is so deeply local.

SA Tourism’s guests then converged at Sun City for several days of trade engagement, speed-marketing sessions with small and micro enterprises, and the kind of informal exchange that doesn’t appear in any brochure but does appear, eventually, in booking patterns.

@kay_tatyana

Kay Tatyana Selisho on Instagram: "South Africa is mega lekker …

According to Mathibela, up to ninety percent of agents who attend the Mega Lekker Escape go on to book South African travel within a year. The program contributes an estimated R12 million to the domestic economy through flights, logistics, and programming alone, before a single tourist has booked a safari.

The numbers from Australia and New Zealand have been moving in directions that would have seemed optimistic even a few years ago.

Both markets are responding. The question South African Tourism is trying to answer, and has been trying to answer, in various configurations, since the pandemic reshuffled the global travel industry, is why the gap between what South Africa actually is and what people have been told it is remains so wide, and what it takes to close it.

The answer, Mathibela suggests, is not advertising. Or not advertising alone.

“PR goes a long way for us because that is content we didn’t necessarily pay for,” she says, in response to a question posed by a young content creator and media professional Vuthsilo Princess Mabaso.

“And obviously the more positive it is, the more value it is for us. But it’s the mix. The bit of PR, the bit of advocacy. This,” she gestures around the room “…the familiarisation, people actually getting to experience our country. That really counts.”

Paid media can put South Africa in front of a traveller. An influencer post can make it feel aspirational. But, the thing that converts an agent from passive awareness to active recommendation is having walked the streets themselves, having sat around the dinner table, having seen the wildlife and felt the hospitality and, perhaps most importantly, having felt safe in Johannesburg when they had been quietly warned they wouldn’t.

Fam trips

There is a particular texture to the misinformation that circulates about South Africa in Australia, and Mathibela navigates it with a care that suggests she has been navigating it for some time. When a journalist in the room raises what the expatriate community has been saying, the stories, the ambient anxiety that makes travel agents hesitant to recommend, an Australian colleague cuts in before Mathibela can fully respond.

“That’s driven a lot by a large expatriate portion of people that live in Australia,” she says. “They tend to say things... they’ve got to prove their reason for leaving.”

Mathibela nods before adding, ”We do know that even one incident can be very damaging to our brand. But this Mega Lekker… I can say now, we were in Johannesburg yesterday, and three of the agents were absolutely blown away by how safe they felt, how amazing a city it is, what’s going on there. One of them has already got a booking.”

@kay_tatyana

Kay Tatyana Selisho on Instagram: "Checked in ✅

Over the past …

This mechanism has a name in the industry: familiarisation travel, or “fam trips,” but the Mega Lekker Escape is unusual in its scale and its deliberate geographic spread. Most such programs concentrate visitors in the obvious places: the Cape Winelands, the Kruger National Park, the Garden Route. The Mega Lekker itineraries went further, to provinces that don’t feature on most international radar, and to the 60 small, medium, and micro enterprises that participated in dedicated speed-marketing sessions with international buyers. These are the operators—guides, food producers, artists, community project managers, who would otherwise have no pathway into the Australian and New Zealand travel markets.

“When we grow tourism, we want more South Africans to benefit. Connecting international buyers directly with our businesses helps those operators access markets that would otherwise be difficult to reach,” Mathibela says.

The following day, we get to see this in action as different SMME’s take to the stage shortly before lunch to do a short quick presentation. Some speak, others rap or dance and once the session is over, the agents flock each of them to connect.

The stories that work, Mathibela says, when I ask what kinds of content actually convert interest into bookings, are the people stories. Culture. History, delivered in the South African idiom rather than the colonial one. And humour—specifically, the South African sense of humour, which is hard to describe and immediately recognisable once encountered.

“We have a unique humour as South Africans, and I think you would have experienced that.”

She is addressing the Australian agents and media in the room, and several of them nod in a way that suggests they have indeed experienced it, and found it disarming in the best possible way.

READ | Safaris and stays: 6 Mega Lekker wishlist wonders to bookmark for your next trip

This is something that comes up in informal conversation with Australians and New Zealanders who have been on the full 10-day program. They’re all in agreement about the fact that the warmth, hospitality doesn’t feel performed. The food (always the food) and always the wine, in the same breath. The landscapes, which defy the photographs. And the humour, which functions as a kind of shortcut to genuine connection, the thing that makes a stranger on a street in Cape Town feel less like a stranger.

Mathibela tells a story about a post she saw on social media: a woman marvelling that a stranger had offered to buy her two bottles of water. “And it was such a big deal for her,” Mathibela says. “And for us South Africans, it’s just normal. That’s who we are, that’s what we do.”

She calls back to their most recent campaign slogan “Come Find Your Joy in South Africa,” and notes that the word joy is rendered in yellow in the visual identity, the colour of the sun, of warmth, of that specifically South African brightness that functions as both a literal and metaphorical description of the country. It is, as marketing slogans go, genuinely meant as joy is not just a euphemism but the actual product.

It’s not just about international arrivals

Not everything is uncomplicated. South Africa is a vast country with significant internal disparities, and the tourism conversation is not only about international arrivals. There is a domestic dimension, called Sho’t Left, targeted at South African travellers for whom travel within their own country has often felt financially inaccessible, and a tension that sits underneath the boosterism of any national tourism body’s public communications.

When a local journalist in the room raises the issue of over-tourism in certain areas, game reserves, iconic coastal destinations, the perennial crowding of Cape Town during peak season, Mathibela does not deflect. There are protocols, she says. Limits on the number of vehicles in reserves. Codes of conduct. An ongoing effort to redistribute visitor pressure across the country’s 42 game reserves, most of which remain largely unknown to international visitors who fly in with Kruger already pencilled into their itineraries.

And there is the pricing question. The one that sits most uncomfortably at the intersection of tourism success and domestic access.

As international arrivals grow, as lodges and activities price themselves to serve visitors from stronger economies, the cost of experiencing one’s own country climbs.

“I say to my clients,” one travel agent in the room offers, from the domestic industry perspective, “you need to travel off-season, or you need to book at least twelve months in advance.”

The Shot Left campaign, with its seasonal discounts and trade partnerships, attempts to address this. Whether it fully addresses it is a different question. Mathibela does not pretend these tensions don’t exist. What she argues, and what the numbers, so far, appear to support, is that the alternative is worse.

“Every traveller who chooses South Africa supports a network of people. Tourism sustains jobs, small businesses and communities across the country.” The goal is distribution: of visitors, of revenue, of the benefits that flow from a country that is genuinely extraordinary once you are actually in it.

On the question of air access—the practical issue of how you get 121 000 Australians to South Africa in a year, and whether that number has a ceiling, the global manager is measured.

She says there is a government-endorsed access strategy, one that South African Tourism is a champion of, that aims to bring more airlines onto more routes. Qantas has increased frequencies, South African Airways is expanding and a healthy dose of competition, she suggests, is always good.

When the journalists asks about Ethiopian Airlines’ potential entry into the Australian market—which could theoretically make East Africa more accessible and draw tourists who might otherwise have gone to South Africa, Mathibela appears untroubled.

“I think, first of all, a healthy dose of competition is always good,” she says. “It keeps us on our toes.”

This is, in some ways, the whole argument in a nutshell. South Africa does not need to be the only option, it just needs to be the option that, once experienced, becomes the story you tell. The agent who comes for three days and leaves having already confirmed a booking for a client. The journalist who writes about the 28 million views a viral bush-trip post received, and finds her own piece getting engagement in the process. The stranger who buys two bottles of water and doesn’t think twice about it.

“The thing is,” one Australian journo says, before the Q&A wraps up, “once you’ve been here, once you’ve actually experienced it, you don’t have any choice but to send people. You can’t not recommend it.”

- Kaunda Selisho attended the last 3 days of the 2026 Mega Lekker Escape as an independent journalist.

And not on a contract, spread over 12-24 months with a “free” gift thrown in. I was talking cash, upfront, on a brand she’d never seriously considered before.

She paused, understandably, considering the suggestion wasn’t exactly what she was planning, but here’s the thing, I’d been using the Honor X9d for a month at that point, and I genuinely believed in it. I still do.

Android girlies who buy their phones cash

My bestie and I have been Android users our whole lives. We are not the people who walk into the mall stores and say “give me whatever’s on special with the contract.” We research, we compare specs, we read reviews, and then we pay cash and move on with our lives.

I’ve never been a fan of phones being monthly line items on my budget, nor have I been keen on facing upgrade anxiety every two years. When I met my bestie at work one day, years ago, I felt seen by this woman who share this outlook on phones.

R10k is not an outrageous amount of money in global terms, but when you’re buying cash, you feel every rand and you want to know that what you’re getting is going to last.

From the X9c to the X9d

Those of you who know me, know that I work as a lifestyle journalist, and part of that work involves testing and reviewing tech products, including phones. So, I do have a working relationship with the brand, among others.

But — and I mean this sincerely — I would not have told my friend to spend R10 000 on something I didn’t genuinely believe in.

@kay_tatyana

Kay Tatyana Selisho on Instagram: "Hello X9b 5G @honorza"

I’ve tested enough devices across enough brands to know that the mid-range space is where Honor is doing something genuinely interesting. Their flagship and entry-level stuff? Honestly, not my thing — but that’s true for pretty much every phone brand I’ve had hands-on experience with. The sweet spot, the place where specs meet value, and you actually get a phone that feels considered, and that’s where the X9d lives.

I’d been an X9c 5G user for a full year before the X9d landed in my hands. I love the X9c. It was my first full-time Honor device, and it converted me. So when the X9d arrived, I came in already rooting for it and did not disappoint.

Conversations at dinner

Instead of reciting the spec sheet, I talked about my month with the phone complete with receipts.

This is not the first time I had made a recommendation to her. Until recently, we had the exact same phone from a different brand and I had retired my device after getting my x9c.

Now that she had filled the 256GB on her device, she was looking for a newer device, in the same range, with a solid camera, AI capabilities and enough memory to capture all the wonderful (and not so wonderful) things she gets to experience.

My x9d experience at a glance:

The battery is genuinely unbelievable: 8,300mAh is a number that sounds made up until you’re two days out from your last charge and the phone is still going. Honor uses silicon-carbon battery technology to fit that capacity into a phone that’s just 7.76mm thin and weighs 193g — which, if you’ve ever held a phone with a tablet-sized battery, you know is remarkable. In third-party battery testing, it clocked 13 hours and 35 minutes — almost matching the record holder, which has a much smaller screen. For someone who is constantly on their phone for work and content creation, never having to hunt for a charger is a genuine quality of life upgrade.

It’s durable in a way that feels real, not just on paper: The X9d has IP69K, IP68, and IP66 ratings. That’s triple waterproofing certification, which is the highest ingress protection against dust and water that exists in the industry. It can handle high-pressure water jets, hot water splashes up to 85°C, and survive being submerged. The drop resistance is also legitimately tested — built with a 6-layer drop-resistant structure that can take falls of up to 2.5 metres on surfaces like marble, cobblestone, and asphalt.

The display is gorgeous and the bezels are actually uniform: I know that sounds like a small thing, but anyone who’s owned a mid-range phone knows the slightly-thicker-bottom-bezel disappointment. The X9d’s 6.79-inch OLED screen has 1.3mm slim bezels all the way around. It’s rated at 800 nits for normal use and goes up to 1,800 nits in bright conditions, which means outdoor use is actually fine.

For content creation, it’s been great: I film and photograph content for work and for myself, and the 108MP main camera with OIS + EIS stabilisation has handled everything I’ve thrown at it. Tech reviewers who primarily compare it to flagship devices will note it doesn’t match them at that price — fair enough. But for the kind of content I make, the detail is there, the dynamic range is decent, and low-light performance is genuinely acceptable.

The AI editing suite — Eraser, Face Tune, Outpainting, Moving Photo Collage — is also legitimately useful, not just marketing fluff.

The price point is real value: In South Africa, you’re looking at R9 999 for a phone that punches well above its weight on the things that actually matter for daily use.

What I also told her (the honest bits)

I really, really wish the Reddish Brown colour option was available in South Africa. The Sunrise Gold and Midnight Black options we get here are beautiful, but that reddish brown with the gold frame is stunning, and it’s not here. If you’ve seen it, you understand the frustration.

Also, the phone does come with a protective case in the box — but if you want something more personalised or if the included one doesn’t suit your taste, covers are easy enough to find online. It’s not a dealbreaker, just worth knowing.

The processor — a Qualcomm Snapdragon 6 Gen 4 — is mid-range, and it performs like a mid-range chip. Apps launch a fraction slower than on a flagship. Gaming works, but you’ll notice it. If you’re coming from a budget device, you won’t feel this at all. If you’re coming from a flagship from Honor or another brand, you will.

Beyond the specs and the features, what I convinced my homegirl to make the switch is the fact that I’m hoping this device, per the fact sheet, is meant to be with you for years, not just until the next upgrade cycle.

For an Android girlie who wants a phone that handles her life, her work, her content, and her clumsy moments, it makes sense.

• Although I have a working relationship with Honor as a lifestyle journalist and have reviewed some of their products, including the x9d, all opinions expressed above are genuinely my own.

Case in point: When Nonkanyiso ‘LaConco’ Conco emerged from a recent cosmetic procedure looking noticeably more snatched, the internet did what it always does. It diagnosed her. “Another BBL,” the blogs announced. The comments agreed. And just like that, a nuanced, deeply personal medical decision was flattened into a three-letter acronym that I’m starting to think most South Africans cannot actually define.

Let’s be precise

LaConco had an abdominoplasty. A tummy tuck. A surgical procedure performed by Professor Sofianos, one of South Africa’s most prominent figures in aesthetic surgery, that involves the removal of excess skin and fat from the abdominal area — and, critically, the repair of weakened or separated abdominal muscles beneath.

It is not a BBL nor is it “extra lipo.” Instead, it’s a major surgical intervention with a significant recovery period, specific candidacy requirements, and outcomes that are categorically different from anything a Brazilian Butt Lift would produce.

@_laconco

Nonkanyiso Conco on Instagram: "Valentine tummy tuck| Part 2.
…

A BBL, the procedure LaConco has been accused of repeat patronage of, is a fat transfer surgery. Fat is harvested from one area of the body, processed, and injected into the buttocks to add volume and reshape contour. It is its own procedure entirely, with its own risks, its own recovery, and its own very distinct set of results.

These are not interchangeable terms.

These procedures address completely different concerns, on completely different parts of the body, through completely different surgical methods. And yet, in the court of public opinion, they have become essentially synonymous, a catch-all label for any cosmetic procedure that makes a Black woman’s body look different than it did before.

The optical illusion nobody is talking about

To understand why LaConco’s results were so easily misread, you need to understand something about proportion and something about the bodies South African women, and Black women broadly, are more likely to naturally carry.

South African women disproportionately carry volume in their hips and buttocks.

Now consider what happens when you surgically reduce and tighten the midsection of a woman who already carries natural volume in her lower half.

The waist becomes smaller, core flatter and skin is tightened. The muscles are also repaired, while the hips and buttocks (which have not been touched, have not received a single injection, have not changed at all) suddenly look dramatically more pronounced.

BBL-ish, if you will…

When the centre pulls in, everything around it reads as larger by contrast. It is the same principle behind a waist trainer, a structured corset, or a well-tailored dress. The eye perceives what the silhouette suggests.

@_laconco

Nonkanyiso Conco on Instagram: "I was invited and honoured to c…

What LaConco actually said

What makes this particular story worth telling is the candour with which LaConco has chosen to discuss her experience.

She also offered something rarer still: an admission of what she wishes she had known sooner. LaConco has been open about the fact that she previously underwent multiple rounds of liposuction; procedures she now understands were not the right solution for what her body actually needed.

“If I had been better informed and consulted with a specialist sooner,” she said plainly, “I would have saved myself money and many hours of recovery.”

Her willingness to say so publicly, without embarrassment, is the kind of honesty that is in genuinely short supply in conversations about cosmetic surgery, particularly among Black South African women, for whom the stigma around these procedures remains acute.

“As Black women, we don’t always see our stories reflected in conversations around body confidence and cosmetic surgery. That’s why I’m choosing to share mine — so that others know it’s okay to feel nervous, but it’s also possible to overcome those fears by asking questions. Body confidence is a personal journey, and knowledge is the first step towards self-assurance.”

What the surgeon said — and why it matters beyond this case

Professor Sofianos, who performed the procedure, has used the public attention around LaConco’s transformation to address something broader: the widespread conflation of cosmetic procedures and the misinformation that follows women into consultation rooms every day.

“Liposuction is ideal for removing small, stubborn pockets of fat that resist diet and exercise, helping to sculpt and contour the body. A tummy tuck, on the other hand, goes further — not only removing excess fat and skin but also repairing weakened or separated abdominal muscles,” he says, drawing a distinction between liposuction and abdominoplasty.

That muscle repair element is perhaps the most overlooked component of the tummy tuck in public understanding. Pregnancy, in particular, can cause a condition called diastasis recti — a separation of the abdominal muscles that no amount of liposuction, exercise, or dietary discipline can correct. A tummy tuck addresses this at the structural level.

For Professor Sofianos, the problem is not that women are interested in these procedures. The problem is that they are approaching them with a vocabulary built from blogs, comment sections, and well-meaning friends rather than qualified medical professionals.

“When you understand the distinction between the two, you begin to see that these are not one-size-fits-all procedures. They serve very different purposes, and knowing which is right for you is the first step to achieving results and outcomes that truly support your health and confidence.”

Expanding further on the relationship between fear, information, and empowerment, he says, “Clarity is key. When individuals fully understand what a procedure involves, they are empowered to make informed decisions that align with their personal goals, values, and lifestyle — rather than being paralysed by fear or misinformation.”

And the outcomes, he notes, are measurably better for patients who arrive informed.

“Patients who walk into the process well-informed are calmer, more confident, and ultimately more satisfied with their results. Knowledge reduces fear and ensures a safer and more positive experience.”

Now that we know better, let’s stop getting this wrong

@kay_tatyanaLaconco did not get a BBL and here's the reason it looks like she did #SouthAfrica #weightloss #rhod #durban

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The misidentification of LaConco’s procedure might seem like a minor celebrity gossip error, the kind of thing that gets corrected in a follow-up post and forgotten within the news cycle, but the implications extend well beyond one woman’s timeline.

When South African women do not understand the difference between liposuction and a tummy tuck, they seek the wrong procedures. They pay for rounds of liposuction when what their bodies require is muscle repair and skin removal. They walk away disappointed, return for more lipo, remain disappointed, and eventually — if they are as persistent and self-aware as LaConco — find their way to the right specialist years and, several procedures later.

When they do not understand what a BBL actually involves, they cannot meaningfully assess its risks, and it carries significant ones, including what surgeons refer to as fat embolism, one of the highest mortality rates of any elective cosmetic procedure when performed incorrectly.

And when the cultural shorthand for “any procedure that changes a Black woman’s silhouette” becomes “BBL,” something more insidious happens: every Black woman who has cosmetic surgery is assumed to have had the same thing, for the same reasons, towards the same aesthetic ideal. It erases the individuality of the decision, the specificity of the medical need, and the legitimacy of the outcome.

That, more than the before-and-after photographs, is the thing worth paying attention to.

- Professor Sofianos is a leading South African aesthetic surgeon. Nonkanyiso ‘LaConco’ Conco is a South African media personality and entrepreneur. Quotes in this piece are drawn from an official press release issued in relation to her procedure.

South African Tourism’s Mega Lekker Escape is an annual familiarisation programme that brings travel professionals from Australia and New Zealand to South Africa for an immersive, ten-day journey across the country — this year spanning eight provinces and eleven simultaneous itineraries.

Now in its third year, the 2026 edition hosted 110 travel agents who spent the bulk of their trip living the South African experience firsthand: game drives at sunrise, coastal towns, cultural heritage sites, and the kind of warm, unscripted encounters with locals that no brochure can manufacture.

The programme culminates at Sun City Resort in the Pilanesberg, where agents regroup for intensive trade engagement, including speed-marketing sessions that bring them face-to-face with lodge owners, small operators, and tourism businesses, many of whom would otherwise have no direct pathway to the Australian and New Zealand markets.

It was in these sessions, and in the conversations that spilled out around them, that I discovered the following wishlist wonders.

Trend watch: Two design and service movements defining South Africa’s next wave of luxury lodges: sunken seating areas are appearing across newly built and rebuilt properties, creating intimate, grounded spaces that blur the line between interior and bush, alongside a renewed emphasis on deeply personalised, owner-led hospitality.

1. Jaci’s Safari Lodge — Madikwe Game Reserve
Opening 1 July 2026 | Family Friendly | Sunken Seating | Big 5

I learned that this property closed after devastating floods in early 2025, Now, Jaci’s is rebuilding with a promise to return bigger, bolder, and more personal than before.

THE PROPERTY: Set within Madikwe Game Reserve, one of South Africa’s most significant Big Five destinations and mercifully malaria-free, Jaci’s has long been a benchmark for bush intimacy. The rebuilt property will open on 1 July 2026 with ten reimagined suites—each featuring the sunken seating areas that are becoming the defining architectural signature of South Africa’s new generation of lodges—plus three multi-bedroom villas designed for exclusive-use groups.

THE VILLAS

• 3 exclusive-use villas, 3–5 bedrooms per villa (the property also offers 10 safari suites)

• Dedicated exclusive-use team and private safari vehicle for each villa

• Ideal for families, multigenerational travel, and small groups seeking total privacy

HIGHLIGHTS

• Thutlwa open lookout deck — elevated dining curated by the resident chef, with the bush as your backdrop

• Naledi sleepout area — fall asleep under an enormous African sky at no additional cost

• Jaci’s Staff Trust — a staff ownership model that creates genuine stakeholder investment, allowing guests to experience more than service and get hospitality with soul.

“The sleepout costs nothing extra. It just costs you a good night’s sleep — in the best possible way.”

More info: www.madikwe.com/lodge/jacis-private-lodge

2. Oceana Beach & Wildlife Reserve — Eastern Cape
Beach + Big 5 | All-Inclusive | Self-Drive | Family Friendly | Garden Route Extension

For the traveller who cannot choose between ocean and wilderness, Oceana refuses to make you decide.

THE CONCEPT: Boutique, unhurried, and deliberately off the beaten track, Oceana Beach & Wildlife Reserve sits at an extraordinary intersection of coastline and game country. It is a complement, not a competitor, to the big-name Big Five lodges, occupying a category all its own: part nature reserve, part barefoot beach retreat.

THE PROPERTY:

• 12 bedrooms in total — genuinely boutique

• Fully all-inclusive

• Self-drive game activities, giving guests the freedom to explore at their own pace

• Horseback riding through the wildlife reserve — an experience almost nowhere else in South Africa offers at this scale

READ | Hell’s Kitchen, golden beaches and endless 35°C vibes: Carol Ofori’s heartfelt take on family travel in Kenya

WHO IT’S FOR: Families looking for diversity in a single stay. Travellers who need to decompress as much as they need adventure. The slow-tourism convert who wants to take their shoes off, feel grass under their feet, and stay longer than planned.

“Big on taking off your shoes and feeling like you’re home” — the defining philosophy of the place, and a harder thing to manufacture than it sounds.

Works beautifully as a Garden Route extension or a standalone Eastern Cape experience.

@oceanareserve

Oceana Beach & Wildlife | Luxury Boutique Hotel on Instagram: "…

More info: www.oceanareserve.com

3. The More Collection — Kruger Concessions

Hotel Group | Multi-Property | Family Options

A curated portfolio of Kruger-area lodges for clients who want the bush to meet them where they are — including those travelling with children.

The More Collection operates several lodges in and around the Greater Kruger area, giving agents the flexibility to tailor itineraries to different family configurations and travel styles. Notably, Tinga Lodge within the collection welcomes children from six years old, while other properties in the group set the minimum age at ten and above — useful specificity when helping families navigate the sometimes restrictive age policies of the luxury bush sector.

Worth positioning as part of multi-lodge Kruger circuits for clients who want variety without sacrificing quality.

More info: www.more.co.za/marataba/safari-lodge

4. Aquila — Western Cape

Ultra-Luxury | Wellness | Adults Only (16+) | Private Concierge

For clients who regard the bush as a backdrop to transformation rather than simply a backdrop. Two hours from Cape Town. An alternative to what the Kruger and Pilanesburg offer.

THE EXPERIENCE: Aquila Collection boasts a portfolio of Big 5 safari lodges and bucket list experiences, including Kuganha, an upcoming luxury wellness retreat within game reserve terrain, designed for guests who want their safari experience to be as restorative as it is exhilarating. With only ten units, the property offers a level of seclusion and personalised attention that larger lodges simply cannot match.

• 10 units — intimate by design

• Private concierge service for each guest

• Minimum two-night stay

• No guests under 16 — a deliberate choice that shapes the entire atmosphere

@aquilasafarisWe wish you were here. #capetownadventure #CapeTownGetaway #DiscoverAquila #adventuretravel #wildlifevideography #luxurytravelexpert #SafariExperience #travelreviews #capetownsafari #africansafari

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At a moment when personalised service has become the defining luxury metric, Aquila Kuganha’s private concierge model is less a feature than a philosophy.

More info: www.aquilasafari.com

5. Tau Game Lodge — Madikwe Game Reserve
Madikwe | Family Friendly | Big 5 | 35 Min from Gaborone

Brick, canvas, and a 24-hour window into the waterhole: Tau is Madikwe for the architecturally curious and the family planner alike.

LOCATION: Tau Game Lodge sits in Madikwe Game Reserve, a 35-minute transfer from Gaborone — making it an unusually accessible Big Five destination for clients travelling from Botswana or connecting through OR Tambo. Malaria-free, like all of Madikwe.

THE ROOMS:

• 20 standard suites — each sleeping two guests, each with a private viewing deck

• Deluxe suites that can accommodate two adults and two children under 12

• Family suite with a second bedroom and communal lounge

THE DETAILS THAT WILL SELL IT:

• 24-hour live stream of the waterhole — clients can watch game from their beds, from their phones, from anywhere long after their stay

• A mix of solid brick-and-mortar accommodation and tented common areas — the best of permanence and camp atmosphere

More info: www.taugamelodge.co.za

6. The Motsamayi Group’s Mandela, Legacy Collection
Mandela Legacy | Kruger | Michelin Keys | Luxury

Where a name carries history, and an experience carries weight.

THE NAME: Mostamayi — derived from one of Nelson Mandela’s apartheid-era aliases — signals immediately that this is not simply a luxury travel product. It is a legacy proposition, a way of encountering South Africa through its most resonant story.

THE PROPERTIES:

Kruger Shalati Train Hotel

• 4 rooms aboard a restored vintage train suspended on a bridge over the Sabie River

• Children welcome from 12 years and above

• Additional suites on the ground below the train

• Recently awarded two Michelin Keys — one of the most significant international hospitality recognitions South Africa has received

Kruger Untamed Vanishing Camps

• Seasonal camps operating May to September only

• Mobile, minimal-footprint bush camps that appear and disappear with the season — a genuinely rare product

@kay_tatyana

Kay Tatyana Selisho on Instagram: "Moments at the Tshokwane Riv…

Sanctuary Mandela

• An intimate hotel built around Mandela’s legacy

• For clients who want their travel to mean something — an elevated but politically and emotionally resonant stay that few other African destinations could offer

More info: www.motsamayi.com, southafrica.net

That happened to be the same year my daughter was born — and the year the world was cautiously, gratefully, emerging from the worst of the pandemic. With social distancing still fresh in our collective memory, the audacity of opening a restaurant at all felt, in hindsight, like an act of faith. Tang Sandton, it turns out, was betting on our social habits before we were ready to bet on ourselves.

So, when the team chose to mark the flagship’s fifth birthday with an intimate celebration unveiling its recent facelift, I was among the city’s who’s who who showed up.

@kay_tatyana

Kay Tatyana Selisho on Instagram: "The other night at Tang, San…

The evening arrived with a sense of occasion that felt entirely earned.

Tang Sandton’s renovation — a vision that mirrors the sleek, considered energy of the brand’s Dubai outpost — had been generating quiet excitement since its reveal late last year. But the birthday gathering offered Johannesburg’s luminaries their first proper introduction to the transformed space: an onyx-lit bar that glows like something from a fever dream in the best possible way, bespoke booth seating upholstered in sleek black finishes, and custom-imported lanterns casting pools of warm amber light across rich black marble laced with delicate white veining. It is the kind of interior that rewards attention, the more you look, the more there is to find.

READ | A hotel left a note on my gown — The reason is more illuminating than it sounds

Guests were welcomed with Tang’s signature cocktails, which (for me, at least) served as a bittersweet reminder of the current state of global cocktail pricing, because I would very much like to return and enjoy several more of them. Tasty, well-constructed, and clearly the product of a bar team that takes its craft seriously.

The canapé spread that followed was a confident tour of the kitchen’s pan-Asian sensibility. Steamed dumplings arrived translucent and plump, their fillings delicate and richly flavoured. The pristine and precise sushi rounded out a spread that felt simultaneously generous and refined. The spring rolls’ pronounced umami weren’t entirely to my personal taste, though the rest of the table had no such reservations; I’m prepared to accept that may well have been a “me problem.”

Dessert arrived to close the savoury chapter, and it was a final flourish that lingered pleasantly long after the last bite.

There was one notable absence on the evening. Nicky van der Walt, CEO and founder of Tang Hospitality, was still in Dubai and addressed the gathered room via video message, his wife representing him on the ground in Sandton with characteristic grace. His words, delivered across a screen, carried no less weight for the distance.

“Tang isn’t bricks and mortar or fixtures and fittings,” van der Walt told guests. “It’s about the human condition and the staff investment, the lives we touch and the change we bring about, and the difference we make in other people’s lives. Whether it’s a sculler who worked his way up, a waiter who could finally provide for his family, the engagements celebrated and the core family memories we created. This re-opening is not merely an aesthetic evolution; it is a renewal of the human spirit that animates the space, the conversations exchanged, the moments curated, and the memories forged within its walls. We are not simply refreshing interiors; we are re-energising the soul of the experience.”

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TANG ™️ on Instagram: "The wait is finally over. After an exten…

Group Executive Chef Vixa Kalenga also took a moment to address the room, offering a candid glimpse behind the curtain: the menu items guests were enjoying that evening had been a hard-won fight, requiring him to prepare the dishes for the decision-makers multiple times before they were finally approved. It was the kind of detail that reframes a canapé entirely.

What began as a single Sandton address five years ago has grown into a portfolio spanning three cities across two continents — Johannesburg, Cape Town, and Dubai — each venue carrying the same philosophy of immersive luxury anchored in genuine hospitality.

The accolades have followed accordingly. In 2025, Tang Waterfront in Cape Town was crowned Global Restaurant of the Year and Best Waterside Restaurant at the Reve Luxury Awards, while Tang Sandton claimed Best Asian Cuisine in Africa at the World Luxury Restaurant Awards in Singapore. Kalenga was recognised as Best Head Chef at the Reve Luxury Awards and achieved One Knife status at The Best Chef Awards — a rare distinction that speaks to the culinary vision underpinning every plate. For the third consecutive year, Tang was also named among the Top 100 Restaurants in the World at the Luxury Lifestyle Awards, a consistency that distinguishes genuine ambition from mere aspiration.

Reflecting on both the milestone and the year of recognition, van der Walt was characteristically direct: “Winning these prestigious awards is a true celebration of everything we stand for — excellence, innovation, and the unwavering passion behind the Tang experience. It’s incredibly rewarding to see our vision recognised on a global scale and to witness the pride it brings to our team. We’re also thrilled to unveil this newly upgraded Tang Sandton, where our guests can discover an even more elevated and inspiring dining experience.”

The timing carries its own symbolism. Tang steps into the Year of the Fire Horse, with its connotations of dynamic energy and bold renewal, having shed none of its appetite for excellence.

The Sandton flagship, now five years old and freshly reimagined, feels less like a restaurant that has aged and more like one that has finally, fully arrived.

Fresh from a family holiday to Malindi in Kenya, Carol’s passion for African travel shines brighter than ever.

In this Q&A, she opens up about why she’s made it her mission to explore as much of Africa as possible and shares some of her favourite memories from visiting the Kenyan city of Malindi.

Q: Travel has clearly been a huge part of your life. How did that love first start for you, and what keeps the fire burning after so many years and so many destinations?

A: My passion for travel started when my mom gave me the opportunity to see the world as a teenager. We travelled mainly around America and Europe, and those experiences opened my eyes in ways I’ll always be grateful for. Travel exposes you to culture, tolerance, acceptance and constant learning. It’s one of the most beautiful ways to grow as a human being and to develop empathy. After travelling with my family, I moved out, and all I wanted to do was keep exploring. Every December, after seeing so much of the United States and Europe, I told myself I wanted to see more of this continent that I love so much. My first African trip was to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, and I was hooked from that moment on.

Q: You’ve visited dozens of countries across Africa and beyond. What is it about travel that still excites you the most?

A: For me, it’s the learning. I love learning, and visiting a new place allows you to soak up so much knowledge. I enjoy fully immersing myself in experiences because those moments imprint themselves on you. Your travel stories become part of who you are. Through learning, you develop respect for different people and cultures. You begin to appreciate how others live, think and celebrate. That perspective is priceless.

Q: As a mother, how has becoming a parent changed the way you experience and approach travel?

A: I’ve always wanted my kids to see as much of Africa as possible, but I waited until my youngest was at least five years old. When they’re very young, travelling can be more challenging, and we wanted them to be old enough to truly experience and absorb what they were seeing. Planning trips now requires a completely different lens. You have to consider distance, travel time and health precautions. In parts of Africa, malaria can be a concern, so we make sure we’re properly prepared with medication before and during the trip. Safety is also a key factor. One year, we planned to visit Mozambique, but just before we travelled, there was unrest in Maput,o and we had to adjust our plans. As a parent, flexibility is everything.

Q: You recently took the family to Malindi. What made you choose that destination, and how did it compare to your expectations?

A: It was actually my second time visiting Malindi, and we absolutely loved it. This time, I visited Gold Beach at Che Shale for the first time. It’s a stretch of coastline famous for its shimmering sand. The “golden” effect is caused by mineral deposits, specifically mica and titanium particles, that are washed down from the interior by the Sabaki River before settling along the shore. The mix of gold and darker, almost black sparkles in the sand creates the most incredible, glistening effect in the sunlight. It was completely mind-blowing to see in person. We also visited the Vasco da Gama Museum, which was fascinating, snorkelled in the warm Indian Ocean, and explored the dunes on quad bikes. The city tour was incredibly interesting, and we even went to Hell’s Kitchen, which looked completely different from when I first visited because of erosion. Experiencing it all again, but this time as a mother, was truly eye-opening.

Q: Was there anything about Malindi that surprised even you?

A: The consistency of the weather! We had hot, 35-degree weather every single day, which is very different from South Africa, where conditions change quickly. That consistency meant we could fully enjoy every activity we planned without worrying about sudden shifts in weather.

Q: From a cultural and sensory perspective, what stood out most?

A: The Maasai culture stood out deeply for me. Watching them perform. the jumping, the singing, the pride in their heritage, was incredibly emotional. They are so proud of who they are. As South Africans, we’re familiar with diverse cultures, but experiencing something different firsthand is always special. It’s very different from Zulu or Xhosa culture, for example. Their beadwork is extraordinary and unique to East Africa. What made it special is that while we all share beadwork traditions as Africans, we express them differently. The patterns, colours and techniques vary, and that diversity is beautiful.

Q: You’ve made it a mission to explore as much of Africa as possible. Why is that so important to you?

A: Simply put, Africa is the best continent in the world. I may be biased, but I truly believe that. If more Africans travelled within Africa, we would appreciate each other more and collaborate more. Unfortunately, it can be difficult to travel across our own continent due to various barriers. If we were able to work together more seamlessly, we could all grow together. A thriving Africa means a thriving South Africa. Seeing the potential across the continent motivates me to explore as much of it as I can. There’s so much opportunity here, and we need to collaborate more with our neighbouring countries.

Q: After Malindi, what’s next on your travel list for 2026?

A: I would love to do another solo trip, but as a mom of two, that’s not always easy! More than anything, I want to continue exploring Africa with my kids. They are obsessed with travelling the continent, and that makes me so proud. It makes me feel like I’m doing something right as a parent. We haven’t decided where we’re going next just yet, but we’ll be pulling out the map, creating a wish list, weighing up the pros and cons, and then choosing our next adventure together.

*Information supplied by The Platinum Club on behalf of Carol Ofori.

Before you even step through the doors, The Palace of the Lost City commands attention with its iconic facade, anchored by its Sable Fountain. Gigantic antelope heads appear to be jumping out from the mist, inviting you to slowly stroll around the welcome installation, taking in the majestic sight.

Note: Circles and symmetry are recurring motifs here.

Sun City's crown jewel, as seen in Adam Sandler's 2014 romcom, Blended, is the kind of place where you half expect someone to hand you a goblet. So, perhaps it is no surprise that,at the end day one of South African Tourism's Mega Lekker Escape, I found myself reading a note that had been tucked, with great ceremony, over the hook of my bathrobe.

"Please be advised that hotel gowns are the property of the hotel and must be left in your room after use. If you wish to purchase a gown, please contact extension 4301."

I had not been planning to steal the gown dear gentle reader, but the note, polite as it was, confirmed what I had suspected: The Palace has been here before.

The timing of this small domestic whodunit was, as it turns out, impeccable. Just a day earlier, I had been sent a press release detailing the results of a January 2026 survey by vacation rentals platform Deluxe Holiday Homes, in which 1,239 hotel staff members and owners were asked to identify the items they most commonly see guests take from rooms. The findings were illuminating, if not entirely surprising to anyone who has never clicked on one of these listicles out of curiosity.

The great hotel heist, ranked

Towels top the list, with nearly 88% of hotel staff reporting they regularly go missing. Almost nine in ten respondents had witnessed guests walking out with them. Bathrobes come in second at just under 66%, which felt, given my evening's reading material, extremely on the nose.

Hangers rank third at 55%, followed by toiletries at 53%, blankets at 36% and pillows at nearly 32%. Hair dryers, pens, dishes and remote controls round out the top ten.

The hospitality industry expert quoted in the study puts the industry's annual losses from theft at around $100 million in the United States alone, and draws a distinction between the genuinely confused and the knowingly opportunistic.

Things like branded pens or mini soaps occupy a grey area because they feel like freebies, and hotels do routinely restock them. Bathrobes and blankets, as my note attested, do not carry the same ambiguity.

What the list does not include, but perhaps should, is a category I first encountered in a travel article years ago that has haunted me ever since: the hotel kettle. Specifically, the alarming practice — apparently not uncommon among travellers who have under-packed on the underwear front — of boiling one's smalls in the room's kettle as an improvised laundry solution. Yeeeuuuccckk! I have not been able to look at an in-room tea tray the same way since. My evening Earl Grey now comes with a side of existential dread.

Sun City and the spectacle of the Mega Lekker Escape

Whenever I get ahead of myself with these thoughts, I return to thinking about the third instalment of the Mega Lekker Escape — a flagship trade and media event that has become one of the more ambitious set pieces in the destination marketing calendar.

The concept is straightforward in ambition if not in execution. For the ten days preceding the Sun City leg, 110 travel agents and media from Australia and New Zealand fanned out across South Africa, each hosted by an in-market wholesaler, experiencing the country's wildlife, City escapes, adventure offerings and hospitality first-hand. 

The theory is that there is no better sales tool than genuine experience: an agent who has watched a leopard drag a kill into a marula tree, or stood on the edge of the Blyde River Canyon at dusk, sells South Africa differently to one who has only read the brochures.

That pre-trip experience culminates here at Sun City, where the group reconvenes for two days of structured networking, product meetings and, frankly, a great deal of fun. The 200-delegate event brings together leading ANZ wholesalers, South African tourism exhibitors and the media contingent — all with the express purpose of building relationships, diversifying portfolios and doing business, as the welcome letter puts it, “while surrounded by the Big 5.”

Day One: Arrivals, meetings and a walk through the sand

Day one began with a transfer from South African Tourism's Johannesburg office in Sandton, winding northward to the resort.

Arrival at The Palace was followed by a welcome lunch and then the first round of agent/wholesaler and SA property meetings — the commercial engine of the event, and the reason everyone is here.

For the South African media contingent, the afternoon also brought something more intimate: a sit-down interview session with South African Tourism's Acting CMO and Global Manager of PR, Communications and Stakeholder Relations, Thandiwe Mathibela.

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Although the itinerary listed a presentation night and dinner, I had no idea just how much fun we were in for as we watched each group share a highlight reel of their trips, complete with a local easter-egg in each video (a pack of Nik Naks placed somewhere in the video) to keep us engaged throughout the night.

The evening culminated in a post-dinner walk through the sand to the Valley of Waves, Sun City's iconic surf pool, for the a networking after-party that was more dancing than networking because our international guests know how to have a good time.

Day Two: Safari, high tea and a trivia night at the boma

Day two opened with another round of agent/wholesaler and SA property meetings at Warriors Hall, punctuated at noon by the SMME Speed Marketing Session — a rapid-fire format that gives smaller South African product owners direct access to the ANZ trade audience. For an industry trying to diversify its tourism offering beyond the well-worn Garden Route, these brief but high-intensity conversations matter.

The afternoon is where the programme earns its title. Media guests were hosted for High Tea at the African Suite from Adam Sandler's above-mentioned movie. I sadly missed this portion of the afternoon along with the late afternoon express safari after unexpectedly falling ill.

Why it matters

South African Tourism has run this event for three years now, and the logic behind it grows more compelling with each iteration.

According to Mathibela, Australia and New Zealand represent high-value, long-haul markets for South Africa, bringing visitors who stay longer, spend more and are, by temperament, predisposed to the kind of adventure and wildlife experiences the country does better than almost anywhere else on earth.

The Mega Lekker Escape is, at its core, a bet that the best way to sell South African experienced is to put the people who sell South Africa inside it and based on the range of moving, funny and entertaining presentations from night one, SA Tourism looks set to tell a story of significant growth at the next Mega Lekker Escape.

*Kaunda Selisho travelled as a guest of South African Tourism. For more information on the Mega Lekker Escape and visiting South Africa, visit southafrica.net. Survey source: Deluxe Holiday Homes Hotel Amenities Survey, January 2026. Data credit: deluxehomes.com

American daytime TV is going through the television equivalent of South Africa’s March Madness season, where radio stations shake up their programming and have some of the biggest names in the game playing musical chairs for their next job.

Kelly Clarkson announced that she would stop hosting her show after the current season, while trade magazines made that announcement for Sherri Shepherd before she could do it for herself. Jennifer Hudson’s show is expected to face the same fate soon.

This has the viewing audience asking what’s next for daytime TV and talk shows, given these developments.

Many have bandied about the idea that online talent is the answer to this vacuum left by the end of these shows, but I do not think so.

From golden age to media empires

To understand why simply transplanting digital creators onto broadcast schedules won’t work, we need to look at how daytime television became the cultural institution it once was.

In America, the daytime talk show format emerged in the 1960s and 70s as networks realised there was an entire demographic at home during working hours: primarily housewives, shift workers, and retirees.

Phil Donahue pioneered the audience-participation format in 1967, creating a template that would mint money for decades. The formula was deceptively simple: one charismatic host, a studio audience, controversial topics, and the illusion of intimacy broadcast into millions of living rooms.

The economics were beautiful in their efficiency. Production costs were relatively low compared to primetime programming—no expensive sets, special effects, or location shoots. Just a soundstage, some chairs, and people willing to bare their souls on national television. The shows recorded multiple episodes in quick succession, sometimes taping an entire week’s worth of content in two days. More importantly, they captured precisely the demographic advertisers craved: women with purchasing power and time to absorb commercial messages. Soap companies, food brands, and pharmaceutical companies lined up to sponsor these shows, creating a financial ecosystem that seemed perpetually sustainable.

South Africa followed a similar trajectory, though decades later. Shows like Felicia (The Felicia Show) and 3Talk With Noeleen tapped into the same formula: accessible personalities discussing topics that felt both personally relevant and socially important. This formula was also adapted for evening formats.

The SABC and commercial broadcasters recognised they could fill daytime slots cost-effectively while building loyal audiences who structured their days around these programs. In both markets, these shows became appointment viewing and communal experiences that people discussed at work, at the salon, over the phone with friends.

Feeding the monster: When the formula began to demand too much

But sustainability came at a cost that we’re only now fully reckoning with. The perpetual hunger for content: 195 episodes per season, year after year, created perverse incentives that pushed producers into increasingly unethical territory.

The Donahue model of respectful discourse gave way to the Jerry Springer circus, where human degradation became the draw. Producers didn’t just find compelling stories; they manufactured them.

We now know, thanks to exposés and documentaries from former staff members, that some shows coached guests on what to say, exaggerated conflicts, and in some cases, invented entire scenarios from whole cloth. The Jerry Springer Show became infamous for allegedly staging confrontations and encouraging physical altercations. The Jenny Jones Show faced a wrongful death lawsuit after a 1995 episode’s surprise reveal contributed to a guest’s murder. Even more respected programs weren’t immune, producers would vet potential guests for their willingness to perform emotion on cue, selecting the most theatrical pain over the most genuine need for help.

The exploitation was systematic. People experiencing profound trauma were paraded before cameras and live audiences, their suffering repackaged as entertainment. Problematic tropes flourished: the “baby daddy” episodes that reduced Black families to stereotypes, the “makeover ambush” segments that pathologised women’s appearances, the countless hours devoted to fat-shaming, queer-baiting, and sensationalising mental illness. These shows didn’t just reflect society’s prejudices; they amplified and normalised them, all while generating millions in advertising revenue.

In South Africa, while the shows were generally less sensational, they weren’t entirely immune to ethical questions either. The pressure to generate compelling content on limited budgets sometimes meant prioritising entertainment value over responsible handling of sensitive topics, or giving platforms to controversial figures purely for the ratings bump their appearances would generate.

The reckoning

Then came the documentaries, the tell-all interviews, the social media age where former guests could share their experiences unfiltered. The Oprah Winfrey Show faced retrospective criticism for episodes that, while well-intentioned, potentially caused harm. Recent documentaries have exposed how The Dr Phil Show allegedly trapped guests at treatment facilities they didn’t choose and abandoned them once cameras stopped rolling.

We’ve collectively evolved in how we think about consent, exploitation, and the responsibility media creators have to vulnerable people who share their stories. What passed for “edgy” or “real talk” in the 90s and 2000s now looks like trauma exploitation. The same audiences who once tuned in for the spectacle have had their consciousness raised about power dynamics, informed consent, and the long-term psychological impact of having your worst moment broadcast to millions.

This ethical awakening has both changed how we view old content and what we’re willing to accept going forward. Modern audiences are more likely to recognise manipulation, call out exploitation, and demand accountability. The old daytime TV playbook, which relied on a willingness to look past ethical concerns in exchange for entertainment, simply doesn’t work when your audience is actively interrogating those very ethics in real time on social media.

Demographics and digital disruption

But even if producers could navigate this new ethical landscape, they’d still face a more fundamental problem: the audience has fundamentally changed, and so has how they consume content.

The captive daytime audience that built this empire has largely evaporated. Retirement doesn’t look like it did in 1985. Economic pressures mean people are working well into their 60s and 70s, unable to afford the leisurely retirement that once meant afternoons in front of the television. Those who have retired aren’t necessarily watching TV, many are navigating Facebook, learning to spot AI-generated misinformation, watching YouTube tutorials on managing their retirement accounts, or video-calling grandchildren across the country.

The stay-at-home parent demographic has also transformed. Those who are home during the day are often working remotely, juggling Zoom calls and childcare, with streaming services queued up for those rare moments of downtime—content they can pause when interrupted and resume at will. The idea of being available at 2 pm on a Tuesday for a specific broadcast is laughable when your calendar is carved into 30-minute increments, and your toddler’s nap schedule is unpredictable.

The numbers tell the story.

Daytime viewership has been in freefall for over a decade. The Kelly Clarkson Show, even in its peak seasons, pulled a fraction of what Ellen DeGeneres once commanded, which was itself a fraction of Oprah’s heyday dominance. Advertising dollars have followed viewers to digital platforms where targeting is more precise, engagement is measurable in real-time, and ad spend can be adjusted on the fly. Why buy a 30-second spot in a daytime talk show reaching a diffuse audience when you can microtarget your ideal customer on YouTube, Instagram, or TikTok?

Other forces reshaping the landscape

Beyond demographics and digital migration, other factors have converged to make the traditional daytime model increasingly untenable. Streaming platforms have conditioned audiences to expect content on demand, binge-worthy formats, and freedom from commercial interruption (oh, the freedom! Bingeing Wonderman S1 and Bridgerton S4 would have been hell without it).

The idea of sitting through four commercial breaks to watch a 42-minute show feels antiquated when Netflix, YouTube Premium, or even ad-supported streamers offer more control over the viewing experience.

Production costs, while still lower than primetime, have increased as audiences expect better quality. The low-budget, somewhat grainy look of 90s talk shows won’t cut it when viewers are accustomed to the production values of well-funded YouTube channels and streaming originals. Meanwhile, unions (rightfully) demand better wages and working conditions, celebrity booking fees have skyrocketed as talent has more options, and studio overhead in major markets continues climbing.

There’s also the fragmentation of culture itself.

The monoculture moments that daytime TV once provided don’t exist anymore. We’re scattered across thousands of micro-communities, following niche creators who speak to our specific interests, identities, and worldviews. The broad, middle-of-the-road appeal that daytime TV required to justify its existence has become nearly impossible to achieve or sustain.

And let’s not forget the pandemic’s lasting impact. COVID-19 broke habitual viewing patterns that had persisted for decades. When shows went remote or shut down production entirely, audiences found alternatives and never fully returned. The crisis also accelerated the shift to streaming and on-demand content, fundamentally altering how people structure their media consumption around their lives rather than structuring their lives around media schedules.

Why digital transplants won’t revive the corpse

Which brings us to the supposed solution everyone keeps suggesting: just give popular YouTubers, podcasters, and livestreamers their own daytime shows!

Put Hasan Piker on NBC! Give Emma Chamberlain a talk show! Let Carlos King’s Monday Night Lives or The Funky Dineva Show fill the Wendy Williams vacuum! Surely their built-in audiences will follow them to linear television and revive the format?

This fundamentally misunderstands why these creators succeeded in the first place.

The entire appeal of digital creators is their independence and authenticity, or at least the perception of it. When a YouTuber speaks directly to camera from their home setup, there’s an intimacy and lack of corporate mediation that audiences value. They’re not reading teleprompters written by network executives. They’re not constrained by FCC regulations or sponsor sensitivities in the same way broadcast television is. They can curse, they can go off-script, they can upload a 17-minute video one day and a 3-hour livestream the next. Their audiences chose them precisely because they exist outside the traditional media gatekeeping structures.

Transplanting them into a network daytime slot strips away everything that made them compelling. Suddenly, they’re working within network constraints, answering to executives, fitting their content into rigid time slots punctuated by commercial breaks. The spontaneity vanishes. The edge softens. The authenticity (real or performed) becomes obviously compromised. We’ve seen this play out repeatedly: digital creators who get traditional media deals often see their core audiences reject the sanitised version while failing to capture the broader audience the network hoped for.

Moreover, audiences will not be moved from their preferred platforms. This is the crucial point networks keep missing.

A 19-year-old who watches someone’s YouTube channel isn’t going to start watching daytime television just because their favourite creator got a show. They don’t have cable. They don’t own a TV in the traditional sense. They watch content on their phones, during commutes, during lunch breaks, before bed, asynchronously and on-demand. The idea of being home at 1 pm to watch a broadcast is alien to their entire relationship with media.

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Even older demographics who theoretically could access daytime TV have been trained by streaming to expect better. Why would they return to the priving and constraints of linear broadcasting, scheduled times, unskippable commercials, content they can’t pause or rewind, when they could continue following their favourite creators on YouTube, where the algorithm serves up endless related content, where they can watch at 1.5x speed, where they can engage in the comments in real-time with the creator and community?

The platform is part of the product. You can’t separate the creator from the ecosystem they built within. The interactivity, the community, the immediacy of digital platforms are what make online creators successful. A daytime talk show is a fundamentally one-directional medium pretending to be interactive through the performative inclusion of a studio audience. Digital natives see right through it.

The future is already here, just unevenly distributed

The death of daytime talk shows isn’t a problem that needs solving with a neat replacement. It’s the natural evolution of how we consume media, communicate with each other, and structure our daily lives.

The format served a purpose for a specific era with specific technological constraints and demographic realities. That era has ended.

The future of personality-driven content isn’t in trying to recreate the daytime TV model with digital talent. It’s already happening on the platforms where those creators built their audiences: podcasts that listeners download and consume on their own schedules, YouTube channels that post when ready rather than when the clock dictates, and livestreams that create genuine real-time interaction instead of simulating it with a studio audience.

Trying to revive daytime TV by transplanting online talent is like trying to save the horse-and-buggy industry by putting Tesla engines in carriages. You’re fundamentally misunderstanding what made the new thing successful and why the old thing is failing.

All that to say: The content hasn’t necessarily disappeared, it’s just moved to where the audiences actually are, in formats that respect how people actually live their lives in 2026.

This means that once lobola seals a customary marriage, any subsequent ANC is invalid, ensuring equal division of assets upon divorce unless court-approved otherwise. Many interpret this decision as one that protects vulnerable spouses, often women, from post-marriage attempts to shift property regimes unfairly.

Yet, the online backlash, particularly from men, reveals a troubling undercurrent: a chorus of complaints framing marriage as a trap where women “gold-dig” for assets, ignoring the realities of who actually holds economic power in many households.

If interpreting and evolving customary practices like lobola were left solely to men (based on these reactions) we’d risk entrenching inequality, perpetuating myths of male victimhood, and undermining the very protections that foster stable families. Thank goodness, then, for women stepping up as leaders in all aspects of society, scholars, and judges to arbitrate these traditions with nuance, equity, and foresight.

Naturally, the ruling has focused attention to the high-profile divorce between DJ Black Coffee (Nkosinathi Maphumulo) and actress Enhle Mbali Mlotshwa. Their 2011 customary marriage was ruled valid and in COP, rendering a later 2017 ANC ineffective.

Reactions flooded several social platforms and forums, with men decrying the ruling as an “attack” on their rights, assuming marriage disproportionately benefits women chasing assets (Hmm, I wonder which other social group employs those tactics). Podcaster and prolific-papa Penuel, in a viral video, lamented the “seriousness of the implications of ilobolo,” calling courts “white institutions” meddling in “Black matters” and bemoaning a lack of Black leaders.

He even suggested lobola’s validity hinges on the amount paid—implying a small sum might not constitute a “real” marriage. Unfortunately, such views aren’t isolated and they reflect a broader male thought process that positions men as perpetual victims in matrimonial law, conveniently overlooking data that flips the script on who truly “benefits.”

Consider the irony: many men railing against “asset-grabbing” women don’t even possess the assets they’re so keen to protect.

South African statistics paint a telling picture of gender roles in economic provision

Nearly 42% of households are headed by women, who serve as the primary or sole breadwinners for about 7.5 million families. This figure rises to 43% in some reports, underscoring women’s outsized role in sustaining households in the face of high unemployment.

Homeownership tells a similar story: women solely own a large percentage of residential properties, outpacing men’s share of the pie, and when including joint ownership, women are linked to 69-71% of homes. These aren’t abstract numbers; they highlight how women, often earning 23-35% less than men, still shoulder the bulk of financial stability in families.

If marriage were merely a scheme for women to seize assets, why are so many women the ones building and owning them in the first place?

Parental responsibility adds another layer of disparity.

Only 31-36% of Black South African children live with their biological fathers, a decline from previous decades, leaving mothers to handle the lion’s share of caregiving and financial support. Absent fathers contribute to cycles of poverty, with the enforcement of child maintenance notoriously weak. Many evade obligations entirely, despite legal frameworks. In contrast, women report higher rates of providing financial support to their children, often juggling dual burdens without reliable paternal involvement.

If men were the sole arbiters of customary laws, these realities might be dismissed, preserving a system where fathers can abscond without consequence while decrying “unfair” divisions in divorce. Women’s leadership ensures traditions evolve to demand accountability from all parties, protecting children and families from such imbalances.

This hypocrisy isn’t new

Just a few years ago, many men championed lobola precisely because it reinforced patriarchal control. Paying it was seen as securing “ownership” over a wife and entitlement to her domestic labour. Historical accounts describe lobola as a way to integrate families, but in practice, it often positioned women as assets transferred between male-headed households.

Today, that enthusiasm wanes when rulings like the ConCourt’s highlight lobola’s binding nature. Suddenly, some reframe it as mere “engagement” or an “intention to marry,” complete with an unspoken opt-out clause. If the relationship sours, they argue, no responsibility follows, despite the cultural and legal weight lobola carries. This selective adherence erodes the tradition’s intent to build lasting unions. Without women’s voices pushing for consistency, lobola could devolve into a loophole for evasion, rather than the symbol of commitment it was intended to be.

Penuel’s argument, that lobola’s validity may depend on the amount paid, exemplifies this cherry-picking. He implies a modest payment might not “count” as marriage, allowing men to sidestep COP implications while missing the point that lobola is symbolic, not transactional.

Its value lies in fostering familial bonds and gratitude, not in quantifying a bride’s “worth” or purchasing a spouse at an acceptable price point.

A wealthy man paying extravagantly doesn’t make the union more legitimate than a modest one, both seal the marriage under customary law. Scaling validity by amount reeks of classism, disadvantaging poorer couples while letting affluent men negotiate escapes. Women arbitrating these customs ensure lobola remains equitable, not a tool for the privileged to redefine marriage on whim.

Lobola itself isn’t unique to South Africa; it’s an age-old global custom under various names, predating modern civil unions with white dresses and certificates. From East Africa to parts of Asia and the Pacific (and even in Bridgerton), these practices historically built alliances and compensated families. In pre-colonial eras, they weren’t about “buying” women but honouring communal ties in agrarian societies. Civil marriages, influenced by colonial and religious norms, only became widespread later. Recognising this history, women leaders advocate for adaptations that preserve cultural essence while aligning with constitutional equality, preventing traditions from becoming relics of oppression.

DJ Black Coffee’s response to the ruling underscores why male-dominated discourse needs to be counterbalanced. In a lengthy comment under Penuel’s post, he shared details of his divorce, emphasising a prenup stating they were “unmarried” and never intended customary marriage - these arguments form the main basis for his legal appeal of the previous judgment awarding his ex-wife and the mother of his children her share of the wealth they built in the early days of their union.

He noted that he hoped his comment “carries enough weight” to quiet speculation, but chose a platform known for amplifying men’s grievances over women’s rights. Penuel’s feed, rife with critiques of “feminist” laws and calls for Black men to reclaim authority, serves as a misogynist echo chamber.

With countless South African and international outlets available, from mainstream media to his own celebrity status, Black Coffee’s decision to air his side in that (and other similar echo chambers) is telling.

It signals alignment with spaces that validate male entitlement, potentially normalising evasion of responsibilities and what is fair.

Women’s empowerment disrupts such silos, and I’m thankful we live in a time where it is not only possible but constitutionally entrenched and protected.

Just consider the trending topics of the past week or so: Desmond and Kristy Scott’s divorce, Rachel Kolisi’s 2016 throwback, Mihlali Ndamase’s chilling public statement and Brooklyn Beckham spraying his parents with their own tea.

All of these make me think about schadenfreude and my enduring theory that it will always peak.

At its core, schadenfreude is a German loanword that translates to “harm-joy.” It is the experience of pleasure, joy, or self-satisfaction that comes from learning of or witnessing the troubles, failures, or humiliation of another.

While it feels like a “dark” emotion, psychologists often view it as a byproduct of social comparison. When someone we perceive as being “above” us in status, wealth, or beauty stumbles, it momentarily levels the playing field. It provides a brief, albeit hollow, sense of relief from our own insecurities or troubles.

Seeing someone “at the top” go through a tough time can temporarily level the playing field in our minds, affirming that no one is untouchable.

Let’s look at this phenomenon in action through the recent stories that have dominated feeds, sparked endless threads, memes, debates, and moral grandstanding for days on end.

First, the divorce of influencers Desmond and Kristy Scott. The couple, known for their wholesome family content, high-profile collaborations, and years of documenting their life together, recently built a lavish, multi-million-dollar dream home after years of renovations.

Shortly after showcasing this pinnacle of success, Kristy filed for divorce in late December 2025, citing alleged infidelity. Desmond later acknowledged making “regrettable choices” toward the end of their marriage.

The timing amplified the spectacle: one moment celebrating a custom-built “forever home,” the next unravelling in public filings, with Desmond spotted kissing a new woman days later and Kristy subtly posting about staying at the “same address.” Online reactions ranged from sympathy to gleeful commentary on the irony of building a dream house only for the dream to collapse.

@kristy.saraheye roll Westin is back in action (his nap was interrupted) #movingin

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I’ll admit, I missed most of this because at some point, years ago, I got sick of seeing Desmond’s annoying ass laugh and insincere shock at Kristy’s antics. I blocked them both so I wouldn’t have to see it because not following their accounts wasn’t enough to keep me away from their content, and the algorithmic idea that I would enjoy that type of content because millions of other people were enjoying it too.

Years later, I still cannot escape their content, as it’s all anyone, including myself, can talk about.

However, I draw the line at poring over every detail in their old content to look for signs that Desmond had checked out. Any disinterest or annoyance you feel you may be picking up on was staged: think, quirk-oddball-girlfriend-nonchalant-boyfriend combo. They studied their analytics and your comments and devised a narrative thread that would appeal to a large chunk of their audience.

The truth about what led to the dissolution of their marriage will not be found on their meticulously curated feeds, and the rush you feel from connecting dots that aren’t there is unhealthy.

The same can be said for Rachel and Siya Kolisi’s marriage and his subsequent relationship with Rachel John.

In the early days of the marriage, Rachel K was comfortable being publicly vulnerable, and we slated her for it. Years later, she has continued that same thread of public vulnerability, and though it is often questioned, she has some people in her corner who understand what she’s doing and how it may be beneficial for her healing.

Most recently, when reminiscing about what her life looked like in 2016, the former wife of Springboks captain Siya Kolisi shared nostalgic details from a decade ago, including that she and Siya honeymooned at Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe.

@rachelkolisi

Rachel Kolisi on Instagram: "2016 what a year. 😅
Nic started s…

This reflection landed just as fresh reports of Siya vacationing in the exact same location with his new girlfriend, influencer Rachel John, made headlines across several outlets.

This is the new couple’s first public getaway, and many are taking it as confirmation of the relationship post-divorce.

The coincidence fueled a frenzy: jokes about the “new Rachel” at the old honeymoon spot, accusations of insensitivity, defences of moving on, and endless speculation. Rachel K’s post, without directly naming anyone, became a lightning rod for commentary on heartbreak, relocation, and public moving on.

And then there was Mihlali Ndamase…

The controversial influencer issued a statement expressing genuine fear for her life and safety, accusing a man (reported as Michael Brits, described in some accounts as a married family man) of stalking and harassment following their alleged involvement.

The public response split sharply: some expressed concern for her well-being, others dissected her choices or questioned the details. Brits has since issued a statement denying the reports that the blogs and anonymous X accounts have published, but that horse has bolted. His statement serves no purpose, in my view.

Moving on to the Beckham family drama, which made its way back into public discourse in early 2026 with Brooklyn Beckham’s explosive Instagram statement accusing his parents, David and Victoria, of prioritising “Brand Beckham” over genuine family bonds, attempting to sabotage his marriage to Nicola Peltz, and enforcing performative perfection through controlled narratives and social media, exemplifies tall poppy syndrome in action.

“Oooh, I love rich people mess!” said the gworls.

The Beckhams represent the archetype of untouchable success.

Their carefully curated family brand has long been celebrated as aspirational. When cracks appeared around the time of Nicola’s wedding to Brooklyn, the public response often veered into gleeful dissection and mockery, with social media amplifying every detail of the fallout. This reflects the syndrome’s core impulse.

In cultures that prize humility or view extreme success with suspicion (even in celebrity-obsessed spaces), the sight of an iconic family like the Beckhams unravelling satisfies a desire to see the elite humbled, their polished facade stripped away to reveal ordinary human messiness that afflicts us all.

What has tied all these stories together and kept them lingering in public discourse isn’t just mild participation in celebrity gossip; it’s the undercurrent of schadenfreude.

In each case, the subjects occupy enviable positions. When cracks appear, the misfortune feels narratively satisfying to some observers. It reassures that fame and fortune don’t immunise against pain, betrayal, or vulnerability. The beautiful and rich suffer too, perhaps even more spectacularly, due to the spotlight.

These stories also dominate feeds for days because social media algorithms reward emotional engagement in the form of outrage, mockery, empathy and hot takes.

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Schadenfreude also affords people the opportunity to perform superiority without effort. Psychologically, this ties to downward social comparison (feeling better by seeing others worse off) and tall poppy syndrome, where high achievers are cut down, especially in cultures valuing humility or equality.

In South African online spaces, where inequality and aspiration collide, watching the “blessed” stumble can feel like cosmic justice.

Commenters rush to call out “schadenfreude” in others, positioning themselves as morally elevated while still participating in the spectacle (especially in the case of Mihlali’s story. It’s been nauseating to see some of social media’s most toxic pretend as though they’re not radioactive simply because they woke up feeling like they want to be on Mihlali’s side this week).

I also find it ironic when they do so from their blue-checked X accounts, where they turn this meta-layer where the condemnation itself becomes content, drawing more eyes and replies into X revenue.

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And no matter how we point it out and dissect the behaviour, people will always amplify such stories because they tap into universal human wiring: envy, comparison, the need for fairness in an unfair world.

The schadenfreude will always peak when perfection falters publicly, and as shitty as it may sometimes be, it is just another way we try to make sense of our reality.

It’s January now, the holiday decorations are packed away, and the social media feeds have quieted down from the festive frenzy, replaced with public resolutions and declarations about the year ahead. But one trend from December lingers in my mind: the proliferation of photos and videos showing very young children, Gen Alpha through and through, sporting full sets of acrylic nails.

I was reminded of this on my morning TikTok scroll when I watched a video of a young man waking his pre-teen sister up to let her know that he was home after some time away. My mind went on a side-quest as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with little hands adorned with long, painted nails.

Beside them in the “egregious” pile of things that people allow their young children to do is the toddlers and little girls with perfectly laid edges, baby hairs slicked down with gel or glue, or even tiny wigs. Back in my day (can’t believe I just typed that), the equivalent was people who put curly “soft dread” synthetic hair on their children.

Years, later, I find myself having to ask: Why do the babies have acrylic nails on? Seriously. Isn’t it a little too early?

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*(Sidenote: I call everyone younger than me “the babies” so, in this case, I am not referring to actual infants but to young children between the ages of 6 and 15)

These aren’t isolated incidents. Gen Alpha (born roughly 2010–2025) is immersing itself in beauty culture at an unprecedented pace. From GRWM videos featuring 8-year-olds applying multi-step skincare routines to press-on nails designed specifically for kids, the beauty industry is adapting and profiting.

To meet the demand created by this phenomenon, brands are launching child-friendly lines, and parents are sharing these moments online, often with pride. But, a deeper cultural shift lies beneath the cuteness as we watch the premature adultification of childhood through beauty rituals. And I believe this phenomenon is tied, in no small part, to the erosion of distinctly youth-oriented spaces, media, and experiences.

When everyone consumes the same media

Childhood used to have its own ecosystem. There was the afternoon youth programming block for South African kids (I can’t speak to programming in other countries), there were Saturday morning cartoons, playgrounds as social hubs, teen magazines like Seventeen that bridged the gap without rushing it, and rituals like sleepovers or school dances that marked age-appropriate milestones. Today, those silos have collapsed thanks, in large part, to digital platforms and changing viewing patterns.

Social media algorithms don’t discriminate by age.

A 7-year-old scrolling TikTok or Instagram Reels encounters the same “Get Ready With Me” routines as their 27-year-old aunt: hyaluronic acid serums, contouring, edge control tutorials, and nail artists showing off elaborate acrylic sets. Influencers demonstrate how to “lay your edges” for that sleek ponytail, or how acrylics elevate a look. When young children consume adult media unchecked, they internalise adult desires. Beauty ideals go beyond aspiration and turn into imitation.

There’s a scarcity of truly youth-focused content and spaces now.

The kids no longer have television presenters on shows like YoTV, KTV and Hectic Nine-9.

Instead, platforms push viral trends that blur lines. Kids watch “Sephora kids” raiding stores for the trendiest skincare products, or nail salons offering mini manicures.

Without dedicated playgrounds (literal and digital) for childhood expression, kids desire to be part of trends that also happen to be some of the most visible markers of maturity.

And it’s not just harmless self-expression in my view, it’s premature adultification, where children are allowed to slide down the slippery slope into performing adulthood before they’re developmentally ready.

Studies on social media’s impact highlight how easy access to adult content shapes body image, gender norms, and self-perception from a tender age.

What we’re really allowing on developing bodies?

Beyond the cultural implications, there’s the possibility of real harm to young bodies. Children’s nails, skin, and scalps are still developing. They’re also thinner, more porous, and more vulnerable to irritation and long-term damage.

Acrylic nails involve strong chemicals: monomers, polymers, and primers that can cause allergic reactions, skin irritation, or respiratory issues from fumes. In kids, the risks amplify. Natural nail plates are softer and grow faster. Acrylics can thin them permanently, leading to brittleness or deformity. Trapped moisture breeds fungal or bacterial infections.

Worse, active children could catch long nails on things, ripping off the acrylic, and even the natural nail bed underneath, requiring medical intervention.

Press-ons are marketed as safer alternatives, but even they can harbour bacteria if not removed properly. And while some brands push “non-toxic” kid lines, prolonged exposure to any artificial enhancements isn’t ideal for growing nails.

@jessnailedyouThe IT girl ✨💅🏻 MY daughter, MY rules. Do w/ your kids as YOU please 🫰🏻 #kidnails #nails #acrylicnails #viral #fyp #trending

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Similarly, laying edges or installing wigs on literal children often involves heavy gels, sprays, or adhesives. Hair glues (like those for lace fronts) may contain latex, cyanoacrylates, or even traces of formaldehyde—known irritants linked to allergies, scalp inflammation, and hair loss.

When burned or heated, synthetic hair extensions can release volatile organic compounds (VOCs) or carcinogens. On delicate toddler scalps, improperly managed and badly removed synthetic braids can cause traction alopecia, contact dermatitis, or follicle damage that persists into adulthood.

Reclaiming childhood

I hate that being chronically online means that such qualifications have even become necessary, but I have to make it clear that I am not highlighting all this to shame parents.

Many are navigating the same algorithmic world as their kids, wanting to bond over shared interests or celebrate special occasions. But, we (myself included) need to pause and truly consider whose desires these rituals are fulfilling.

And what are some of the antidotes to the premature adultification of children?

Is it the intentional creation of child-centric spaces? Or does it involve curating media diets with age-appropriate content? Should we do more to revive unplugged playdates, art classes, or sports that celebrate messy, natural childhood? Do we encourage beauty play with age-appropriate products that allow dress-up without permanence, or simple braids that don’t require chemically concerning hairpiece?

I ask all this because Gen Alpha (and Beta) deserves a childhood uninterrupted by adult benchmarks.

“There (sadly) isn’t a single South African star who makes as big of an investment in styling as Bonang, and it shows. There’s literally no one in this country doing it at her level,” I posted on X and Meta’s Threads app as the headlines around her looks started to roll in.

I deliberately chose the word “investment” because it wasn’t just about looking good. Queen B* made a calculated move that yielded an undeniable return on investment (ROI) by cementing her status as a global broadcasting titan who will look good while working incredibly hard.

Primed for pageantry

Hosting the Miss Cosmo finale is a great precursor to Matheba’s quiet dream: leading the Miss Universe stage. And one can only assume there’s a master plan that stretches far beyond that.

This aspiration has been championed by fans for years (with Matheba’s subtle backing of the idea). And though she’s quietly been snubbed over the years, the Miss Universe organisation–which faces a reputation in need of rescue–might want to reconsider while it still stands a chance.

This comes after headlines like:

• Public berating of Miss Mexico (2025): Thai pageant director Nawat Itsaragrisil insulted contestant Fátima Bosch during a filmed event, leading to a walkout by several contestants (including the reigning Miss Universe) in protest.

• Rigging allegations (2025): A resigning judge claimed finalists were preselected and Bosch’s win was influenced by business ties between co-owner Raúl Rocha and her family; the organisation denied this.

• Judge resignations and transparency issues (2025): Multiple judges quit days before the finale, citing lack of transparency and alleged misconduct in scoring.

• Leadership and ownership turmoil (2024–2025): Former owner Anne Jakrajutatip faced financial fraud allegations and stepped down; co-owner Rocha expressed being “fed up” and sought to sell his stake amid ongoing scandals.

• Contestant health and treatment concerns (2025): Reports of widespread food poisoning, hospitalisations, and claims of a “toxic environment” prompting some title renunciations post-pageant.

• Inclusivity backlash (2024): Former CEO Jakrajutatip’s comments praising a winner’s “blond hair and blue eyes” as the “ultimate evolution,” plus leaked remarks suggesting diverse contestants (trans, married) were for PR but unlikely to win.

By contrast, Matheba’s presence at Miss Cosmo brought what organisers called an “incredibly vibrant, bold, and emotional” energy that “elevated the production to new heights.”

A formidable brand strategist

Matheba has consistently used fashion as a tool for storytelling and career advancement.

Her work at Miss Cosmo—where she was styled by long-time collaborator Dahmola from Nigeria in custom looks by Biji La Maison, Emagine by Bukola, and Sheyeoladejo—made me recall her previous career-defining style moments.

Her legendary hosting of the 9th Annual Metro FM Awards saw her fly in international stylist Harrison Crite to ensure a world-class standard.

And, in recent years, she has seemed to perfect her pan-African fashion diplomacy strategy, wearing five unforgettable looks by Nigerian designers that were hailed as Met Gala-worthy at her last Miss SA finale appearance.

For the Miss Cosmo event, her ensembles were nods to natural elements and minerals, topped with a meticulous, “unclockable” up-do that signalled absolute professionalism.

“Hosting the Miss Cosmo Grand Finale was a dream realised. Over the past few years, I’ve found such a fulfilling home in the pageant space, and being recognised globally for my work in this arena is incredibly humbling,” she said in a statement shared by her PR team.

“As a South African, there is an immense sense of pride in carrying my country’s flag to Vietnam; it’s a reminder that our talent is truly world-class and that our dreams are valid”.

@bonang_m

Bonang Matheba on Instagram: "Miss Cosmo 2025 Grand Finale & Be…

The Miss Cosmo organisation also contributed, notingher “signature poise, wit, and unparalleled professionalism,” hinting at an even larger role for her in future editions.

Whether Bonang is capable of hosting on the world’s largest stages has never been a question for her legion of fans, they just want to know when the Miss Universe stage will finally be ready for her.

I’ve been covering the South African entertainment scene for over 13 years and following it for longer than that. My 13 years as a journalist (and editor) have seen me adapt from filing print stories in traditional newsrooms and live-tweeting from red carpets to Substack, and now navigating an era where a viral TikTok clip can launch a career faster than any award win.

Content consumption has dramatically changed over time. Most fans no longer wait for annual broadcasts as I once did, so I would be able to talk about it with my friends at school the next day. Today’s fans have instant, bite-sized moments to catch up on, on their phones if they miss the real-time action.

This is a shift I’ve personally felt, as my own audience has migrated from long-form features to quick-hit reactions, short-form videos and social media posts.

The things I’ve learned from living and working through this shift stuck with me as I recently read Zakes Bantwini’s passionate open letter about the 31st South African Music Awards (SAMAs).

Like many who shitposted throughout the event (held on 14 December 2025 at the Gallagher Convention Centre), he lamented not knowing the event was even taking place that evening. I don’t blame him. Their budget constraints are showing.

But, I can’t stop thinking about whether his diagnosis captures the full picture.

Zakes, a Grammy-winning producer whose voice carries real weight in our industry, lamented how the SAMAs have “shrunk from something the whole nation cared about to something most people don’t even notice.” He’s right about the apathy: this year’s event passed with minimal social media buzz, sparse artist attendance, and winners like Thandiswa Mazwai (who dominated with four awards for Sankofa) and Goldmax shining in a half-empty spotlight.

Zakes called for reform through transparent judging, diverse panels, artists showing up, and RiSA (the Recording Industry of South Africa) leading with vision. These are valid, heartfelt suggestions from someone who’s poured his life into this ecosystem. Artists should rally behind local institutions. Fans should demand excellence. And yes, RiSA needs to rebuild trust through accountability. But framing the SAMAs’ decline as something we can fully “reclaim” with internal fixes overlooks a profound global truth: traditional live awards shows are fading everywhere, not because of mismanagement alone, but because the world has moved on.

The SAMAs were born in 1995, in a pre-streaming, pre-social media era when a national broadcast on SABC could unite millions around a single event. Families gathered, debates raged the next day at work (or in some of our cases, school).

It was our Grammys equivalent, a cultural watermark.

The creators couldn’t have foreseen Spotify algorithms dictating taste, TikTok virality crowning stars, or AI tools democratising production. Today, fans catch highlights (or lowlights) the morning after on X, TikTok or Instagram Reels. I watched part of the awards via live stream on two of those platforms before remembering that the SABC+ streaming app is free.

I can confidently assume that several people have asked themselves “why tune in live for three hours when the best performances and speeches are clipped and shared instantly?”

The culture of catching up the day after has eroded the urgency of real-time viewing, and with it, the prestige and transience of these spectacles.

It’s not just us. Award shows worldwide are grappling with plunging viewership. The Grammys peaked at nearly 40 million U.S. viewers in 2012 but have hovered around 15-17 million in recent years, with drops of 9% or more in 2025. The Oscars, once drawing 55 million in 1998, have stabilised around 18-20 million after pandemic lows—but even that “rebound” masks a generational shift away from linear TV. Younger audiences simply don’t “appoint” events like this anymore.

This year, BET indefinitely suspended its Hip-Hop Awards and Soul Train Music Awards in the face of evolving media landscapes and declining ratings (the main BET Awards saw a 50% drop in key demographics). And just days ago, on 17 December 2025, the Academy announced the Oscars will leave ABC—its home since 1976—for exclusive streaming on YouTube starting in 2029.

To me, that’s not a minor pivot… It’s Hollywood’s biggest night, admitting that it’s time for historic institutions to evolve beyond broadcast TV in more intentional and impactful ways before it’s too late.

If the Oscars need YouTube’s global, free reach to survive, what hope do national awards like the SAMAs have clinging to old formats? And by no means am I advocating for a complete withdrawal from the SABC as a broadcast partner. This is South Africa, after all, and a large chunk of our audience relies on free-to-air broadcast platforms.

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Zakes also pointed to Tyla’s global success as proof that the world is watching South African music, and he’s spot-on. Our artists are competing (and winning) internationally. But that very success highlights another part of the disconnect.

Although none of our artists and their teams have said it in public, perhaps a lot of them wonder why they should prioritise a local ceremony when Grammy nods, or BET validation feel more validating?

Younger artists and their outfits chase overseas approval first, teaching the next generation that local institutions only matter if the world co-signs them.

Credit where it’s due: Zakes’ letter is a much-needed wake-up call.

His ideas (artists showing up, mentoring emerging talent, demanding fair judging) could inject life. RiSA must diversify panels, embrace regional voices, and prioritise transparency. But let’s be honest about this year’s execution, which didn’t help the cause. The event had no proper red carpet (confirmed by organisers earlier), a notably short and underpopulated arrivals area, and reports of a flat atmosphere inside Gallagher Estate: a venue that’s functional but lacks the glamour of past Sun City extravaganzas.

Production felt scaled-back: minimal star power on stage, absent winners (some booked elsewhere or, in one case, getting married), and an overall sense of “going through the motions.”

Even with sponsors like the Motsepe Foundation, it looked and felt low-budget compared to the opulent events of yesteryear. Local awards shows, including others in SA, often suffer similar issues - uninspired venues, lacklustre hosting, and production that doesn’t match the purpose of the event’s vibrancy.

To thrive, not just survive, the SAMAs need radical reinvention, beyond Zakes’ suggestions.

For that, I’m thinking hybrid formats: shorter, punchier live streams optimised for mobile; fan-voted categories via apps (like the Miss South Africa pageant and the MTV VMAs); integrations with TikTok or Spotify for real-time engagement; or year-round content celebrating nominees.

Additionally, I’d like industry insiders to help me understand why it seems like local events don’t partner with global platforms early. Currently, it seems like an afterthought.

Lastly, there should be more of an effort to embrace the creator economy beyond inviting low-level influencers and one or two creator journalists. The Oscars’ YouTube move shows the path: go where the audience is, for free, worldwide.

Zakes ends his letter with hope: “The SAMAs are ours. Their future depends on whether we care enough to save them.”

I care deeply. I have always believed our music deserves celebration. But saving them means accepting they were built for a different world.

In 2025, prestige isn’t about one big night; it’s about constant, accessible connection. If RiSA, artists, and fans evolve together, we can build something new that honours our past while thriving in this fragmented future. Otherwise, even the best reforms will feel like polishing a relic.

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