GHOST RIDERS
THE INVISIBLE LIVES OF JOHANNESBURG’S FOOD COURIERS
IT’S FRIDAY night in Johannesburg. Lockdown has just been eased as COVID infection rates plateau. The restive city is slowly springing back to life, with cars once again careening along the city’s recently empty arterial roads.
We arrive at the crash scene shortly after the accident. The blue and red lights of emergency vehicles bathe the street in an eerie, intermittent glow.
Two motorbike food couriers were knocked down by the same car. The driver tried to flee, but was apprehended by another motorist. One of the bikes was completely flattened, its dislodged seat now lying among shards of shattered plastic and glass strewn across the street. Next to it lies a black canvas carrier bag bearing the Uber Eats logo.
Opposite the wreckage, about 20 food couriers have lined up on their bikes. They rushed to the scene to see if they could assist, alerted via their WhatsApp group.
Left to fend for themselves, the food couriers of Johannesburg have formed WhatsApp groups based on nationality or areas of operation. Some are up to 200 strong. Group leaders often communicate with each other, especially during emergencies such as crashes or robberies.
The mood is sombre, conversation hushed. A biker still wearing his helmet is holding up a drip attached to one of the accident victims. Both were badly injured, but survived. Once they are patched up, they will be back on the streets.
THESE MEN are among an army of thousands of riders who spend up to 16 hours a day, usually seven days a week, come rain or shine, frantically ferrying food around the city.
It is extremely hazardous work. Accidents and muggings, sometimes at gunpoint, are common. Rainy weather, when roads are slippery and visibility poor, is feared most.
They race from fast food joints to student digs in the grimy inner city or from posh restaurants to fancy suburbs for the fabulously wealthy in one of the world’s most unequal cities. Short trips are preferred, but for some orders they must travel up to 20 kilometres. On average they undertake more than a dozen trips a day — sometimes as many as 20.
The COVID pandemic led to an exponential growth in the number of food couriers operating here, using a number of delivery apps. These include Mr D Food, Bolt Food, MyChef and Uber Eats — the latter by far the most popular.
When lockdown restrictions were initially eased last year, hot food sales were limited to takeouts. Even after restaurants opened, the number of sit-down diners was restricted. These factors led to a boom in demand. “We have seen a large increase in the number of restaurants registering on the Uber Eats app since the initial recovery period,” says Uber Eats, describing the “uplift” as “fast and unexpected”.
Many of those joining the burgeoning ranks of Joburg’s food couriers had lost formal employment thanks to the devastating economic impact of repeated lockdowns. Others were drawn by higher wages for unskilled work.
Before long the boom resulted in an oversupply of couriers.
Most are foreign migrants with few prospects, forced to eke out a meagre living in straitened circumstances. Some are undocumented, leaving them doubly vulnerable to police shake-downs and exploitation in an unregulated gig economy driven by opaque algorithms and questionable labour practices.
Despite their ubiquitous presence on the streets, their lives and travails are largely invisible to the residents of Johannesburg. They are the unseen.
FOUR MOTORBIKES fitted with courier boxes are parked in the backyard of a grim, working class suburb of western Johannesburg, where their Ugandan owners rent rooms.
Soon after sunrise the men haul themselves out of bed to fill plastic basins with water from an outside a tap to wash. Tinny pop songs from a portable radio drift across the yard.
One of the men, Mukisa, squats next to a hot plate in his cramped room to cook breakfast — an omelette and a cup of tea. A red beret hangs from a nail above his bed, signifying his membership of popular Ugandan politician Bobi Wine’s opposition movement. Then he switches on his Uber Eats app, pulls on his padded jacket and helmet, and roars off to work — the parking lot of a local mall crammed with fast food outlets.
“I came here to work, not relax,” — Mukisa, Ugandan migrant.
Like so many of his compatriots Mukisa, who didn’t want his real name revealed for fear of retaliation, came to Johannesburg out of desperation. In Uganda he ran a small grocery store. But economic stagnation drove him out of business. And like any active opposition supporter, he faced kidnapping, beatings and arbitrary arrest.
In 2017 Mukisa left his wife and four children in Kampala and took a week-long bus ride to join his brother in South Africa, where he was granted refugee status. Now he works seven days a week, taking a few hours off every now and then to play soccer. This enables him to send a small stipend home every month. “I came here to work, not relax,” he says.
In July his brother, also a food courier who lives down the road, was shot on his way to a delivery. A single bullet pierced his side. Bleeding and left for dead in the street, he was robbed of his mobile phone, boots and food order. He spent a month being stitched up in hospital, and another two months off work without an income.
Mukisa has never crashed or been mugged. On one trip someone threw a brick at him. After he was struck on the shoulder, his bike wobbled dangerously but he managed to stay upright and make good his escape. “Maybe I’m just lucky,” he shrugs. “By the grace of God.”
Such good fortune is rare. Of the dozens of Joburg food couriers we interviewed, almost all related harrowing tales.
Some supplied us with street CCTV footage of crashes and attacks. In one clip a motorist jumps a traffic light at high speed at night and T-bones the hapless biker crossing an intersection. In another the rider must swerve violently while running the gauntlet of pedestrians trying to pull him to the ground.
Sikhumbuzo Gwebu was approaching a green traffic light one evening when a car turned across the road without using an indicator and hit him. The impact hurled him metres into the air. The driver tried to flee but was apprehended by other bikers who’d arrived at the scene.
Gwebu couldn’t move. At first it was feared his spinal cord was injured, but it turned out his right leg and foot were shattered. An ambulance took him to a nearby hospital. Orthopaedic surgeons had to insert an array of pins into his leg and foot to knit the broken bones together.
Still on crutches, the pins in his bones held in place by an external fixator, he’s been unable to work for months. “I can’t walk normally because I haven’t recovered fully yet,” he says with a look of resignation. “I do feel some pains most of the time, but it gets better when I take pain medication.”
PARDON SIBANDA isn’t taking any chances. The 28-year-old Zimbabwean is clad in boots, leather pants and a jacket with padding that resembles body armour. The outfit has earned him the nickname “Robocop”.
He’s been in three crashes in less than two years. The worst was being rear ended by a minibus. Only his protective clothing saved him. “We don’t dress for the ride — we dress for the fall,” he says with a wry smile, his stock response to anyone commenting on his gear.
One would expect Sibanda’s protective armour to be more commonplace among food couriers. But these elaborate outfits can cost as much as R3 000. With profit margins shrinking, this is an exorbitant expense many skimp on.
Uber does not supply its couriers with any protective equipment. Nor does it provide them with training to ride their motorbikes; it considers a valid licence sufficient. Most are taught by friends or relatives. The company also requires all vehicles to pass a physical inspection before being registered. But couriers don’t always maintain their bikes properly.
For self-protection Sibanda carries pepper spray, which he’s used twice on unarmed muggers. Then came the incident that almost cost him his life. Earlier this year two armed men were robbing cars at an intersection where he stopped. When they saw him, they fired shots in the air before training their guns on him.
Wisely, he decided not to fight back. “You can’t lose your life over a phone or a bike. There’s no need to act like a hero,” he says. “They took both my phones, my power bank, and my wallet — with my driver’s licence. It was terrible.”
Duane Bernard, who heads an informal union that represents over half of South Africa’s 3 000-odd Uber Eats couriers, points out customers themselves often rob the couriers, covering their tracks by using unregistered SIM cards to download the food app.
“Then they steal the food, and the driver needs to pay,” he says. “You’ll never trace that customer. Recently two guys in Joburg were robbed of their bikes that way.”
Couriers we interviewed have no faith in the police to protect them. Reporting crimes is not even considered an option. “They want money for a ‘cooldrink’ [a bribe] — even if your papers are in order,” says a courier from Zimbabwe who does not wish to be named, fearing victimisation. “There is too much corruption here.”
Relentlessly targeted, some have turned to vigilantism, using their WhatsApp groups to mobilise. “The police don’t help us, so we must help ourselves, and take the law into our own hands,” the Zimbabwean explains. “If someone steals a phone, we will get it released, and the thief will get a beating. So they learn a lesson.”
This was confirmed by two film clips we received.
The first was taken shortly after a courier was robbed in broad daylight by a customer in Soweto. He reported the incident to his WhatsApp group. Before long about 30 bikers arrived. By then the customer had fled. The couriers found out where he lived and descended on his home. In the clip they can be seen dumping his possessions in the street and setting them on fire.
The second incident, caught on CCTV, takes place at night. A food courier is seen being robbed of his belongings after a physical altercation while waiting for a customer outside an inner city high-rise. A photograph taken later shows the thief lying on the ground, bloodied and in pain.
THESE DANGERS are amplified for the small number of women food couriers. Most use cars rather than motorbikes, which leaves them feeling safer and less exposed.
Rebecca Namukwaya, 23, lives in small garden flat in a quiet suburb with her infant daughter and husband, Stephen. He is a food courier too. Both are Ugandans.
When we first met her she was riding an old battered scooter for Uber Eats.
She recounts a frightening incident that took place in an inner city apartment. When she arrived her customer insisted she bring the food inside, then locked the door behind her. He was “very drunk”. Fearing the worst, she screamed for help and pressed the panic button on her phone that alerts a private security company. Thankfully her captor let her go.
“You risk your life every day,” she says.
Stephen’s brother lives with the couple. He began working as a food courier a week after arriving from Uganda. All are members of the Seventh-day Adventist church.
During our visit to her home, Rebecca breastfeeds her child as her husband prepares to connect to an online church service. A pot of potatoes bubbles on the stove. Soon Stephen begins to sing a hymn and Rebecca joins in.
A friend from Uganda, Olivia Nabaggala, lives down the road in a small, one-roomed flat attached to a communal kitchen and bathroom. Pencil drawings of Olivia and her child, who lives back in Kampala with her grandmother, are pinned to the wall.
At home the 25-year-old wears a pair of stylish ripped jeans and a bright blue striped top, her dreadlocks neatly bound. But for work she dresses in a padded jacked, head scarf and boots, making her almost indistinguishable from her male counterparts.
She, too, is deeply rattled by Joburg’s high crime rate and road carnage. One occasion, a customer threw his food at her and slapped her. On another a close friend from Uganda, Mohamed, was with her when he took his last order before being killed in a crash.
IN JOHANNESBURG, criminals are hard to distinguish from law-abiding residents. Many drive nondescript cars, prowling the streets looking for victims. In one suburb, an upmarket Mercedes Benz SUV without licence plates became notorious for mugging couriers.
Another Zimbabwean, Lovemore Mthethwa, narrowly escaped being robbed by the SUV, which chased him down the road for several blocks.
Mthethwa lives with his wife and young daughter on the 18th floor of a spruce, one-bedroom apartment block with spectacular views of the inner city. He moved to Joburg to escape economic hardship back home. Three years ago he rented a bike and joined Uber Eats.
A month later he was involved in a minor accident. He hit a road hump too fast in the rain one evening and came off his bike. Passers-by pretended to help. Instead, they stole the phone that was strapped to his tank with a rubber band.
Within two years Mthethwa had saved enough to buy his own motorbike. But not long afterwards he was involved in another accident. This time he was hit by a car. Although the impact flung him into the air, his padded jacket protected him when he landed. But his bike, which he hadn’t insured, was a write off.
Heart-wrenching stories such as this are commonplace. But there are other, less [serious] vexations that take their toll on food couriers too.
An all-too-common gripe is being treated as invisible — an unperson.
Some work at shopping malls that lack adequate parking, forcing them to cram their bikes onto pavements or vacant lots while waiting for orders. Others complain of customers or restaurateurs who are inconsiderate or rude. An all-too-common gripe is being treated as invisible — an unperson.
By far the most onerous part of the job, though, is the constant risk of injury or death.
“I want to leave this industry,” Mthethwa says with a sigh. “I know of five guys who have died. You see your brothers with broken limbs. It’s too much.”
DESPITE THE HAZARDS, the couriers we interviewed said they valued the freedom of being able to manage their own time or take other jobs, even with rival companies.
Rebecca Namukwaya is free to attend their Seventh Day Adventist services on Saturdays with her family. Mukisa can choose to play soccer when there’s a game on.
For Pardon Sibanda (aka Robocop), a lay preacher with the words “Jesus is my boss” taped on the back of his food box, it means he can work as an MC at weddings on weekends or go to church as often as he likes. “You are your own boss. You are free to do other things.”
The potential for higher earnings than in other unskilled jobs is a major drawcard too. Some of the couriers previously worked as security guards, earning just R3 500 a month, whereas a full-time Uber Eats courier earns between R8 000 and R11 000 a month including tips but before deducting expenses.
Migrants from countries such as Malawi, Zimbabwe, Uganda and the DRC can earn up to four times what they would back home.
Tips are a significant, if variable, source of income. As a rule of thumb, higher tips are earned in more affluent suburbs than in the inner city, or areas where students live. But business is less brisk there, so a trade-off must be made.
These considerations are becoming increasingly important as costs keep rising while delivery fees decline.
In the past year, bike rentals have doubled from R1 200 to R2 400 a month. The fuel price has increased by 30%. Most drivers say they spend R100 a day on fuel — or around R2 500 a month. Data costs another R200. This means their expenses now typically approach half the couriers’ monthly earnings.
In December 2020 and January this year, the informally unionised couriers led by Bernard went on strike after Uber cut their delivery fees, forcing them to make more trips to match previous earnings.
Uber has refused to budge, saying it has stimulated customer demand, so couriers spend less time waiting idly for customers.
Another major gripe is that Uber uses mysterious algorithms to assign customers to couriers, calculate their earnings, and boot them off the app for infringements. In effect, a robot hires and fires them.
Couriers feel disconnections are often arbitrary, with no viable avenues of appeal.
For example, low customer ratings can lead to a courier being disconnected from their app, with no reasons given. Poor ratings could result from arriving late for a valid reason — such as bad weather or restaurant kitchen hold-ups — or not completing a delivery due to security risks. The accounts of couriers who are mugged are suspended while Uber investigates, so no one reports robberies anymore, the riders we interviewed said.
The issue was exacerbated when Uber closed its offices due to COVID. Couriers are told to use their apps to lodge grievances and appeals. But they complain that machine generated stock responses are often unsatisfactory. Most are deeply frustrated by being forced to “talk to robots”.
Bernard says calls to the Uber helpline are redirected to the app too. Live chats are only possible while riders are actually on a trip. But Uber takes too long to respond “so no one does it”, he says.
Those who report being in an accident are blocked too until they submit a police statement and photos showing their bike has been repaired. So accidents aren’t reported either.
It means couriers can’t benefit from medical and income protection cover provided by Uber. Those who have tried to lodge claims say the requirements are too onerous, so most don’t. The same goes for a R200 000 lump sum life insurance payout to which families of couriers killed on duty are entitled to — a significant amount of money that could tide them over for years.
PROFESSOR EDWARD WEBSTER is a sociologist at Witwatersrand University in Johannesburg attached to the Southern Centre of Inequality Studies.
He recently conducted research in South Africa, Ghana and Kenya on how digital platforms have changed working conditions, led to new opportunities and new forms of worker organisation for unskilled labour, and resulted in deepening inequalities.
A key finding of the study he led was how workers have been disempowered by the use of algorithms — computer generated calculations based on hidden mathematical formulas. As algorithms are considered trade secrets, workers have no input into how rights and rewards are spread, and no opportunity for redress if they believe they have been treated unfairly.
“The use of algorithms as a mechanism of invisible control is unprecedented in the history of work,” Webster argues. “In the case of the food courier, it directs you where to go, how much to charge, and it disconnects you if you don’t play according to their particular rules. But you don’t actually know how anything is calculated.”
As with any technological innovation since the industrial revolution, as new opportunities open up, conditions have deteriorated for workers in the short term. “Platform work driven by tech giants is generating enormous profits for these multinationals and their senior managers and owners on the one hand,” he says. “On the other hand, there is a growing gap with the large pool of mostly men who survive on very modest incomes.”
This is likely to change over time, but only through hard won worker struggles.
“If you take the long view, over time, the rising tide raises all boats — living standards are raised,” he points out. “But it will only happen through ongoing contestation between the different parties on how the rewards are going to be spread.”
App based workers are increasingly resorting to the courts to force tech giants to share benefits more equitably, in line with labour legislation governing formal employment. “There’s a regulatory gap, that’s being contested across the globe,” says Webster. “I believe there will be ongoing litigation.”
He cites a landmark judgement won by Uber drivers in the UK in February this year, when the Supreme Court upheld a ruling by the employment tribunal entitling them to employee benefits. In April, a court in Amsterdam, where Uber’s international headquarters are located, also forced the company to reinstate six drivers unfairly dismissed by its algorithms. In September the same court ruled Dutch Uber drivers should be treated as employees, not contractors, echoing the UK ruling.
London-based law firm Leigh Day, which represented the UK drivers, has announced it plans to launch a class action lawsuit for drivers and couriers in South Africa too, together with local attorneys.
We asked Uber about similar complaints from food couriers in Johannesburg we interviewed of being fired by robots without adequate redress.
Uber said it took concerns of its couriers seriously, but that all users of its platform must strictly adhere to its guidelines. Any breaches resulted in processes being followed that couriers were made aware of when signing up.
Concerning the hurdles couriers face in filing insurance claims, Uber points to “a new safety feature, known as Emergency Contact, that can be used by Uber’s Incident Response Team to contact a delivery person’s relatives in case of an accident and/or for insurance purposes”.
But most couriers have little faith in these initiatives. None of those we interviewed knew of a single person who had submitted an insurance claim.
Bernard recalls trying to help a widow of a courier killed in a crash in Pretoria to submit a life insurance claim. “Uber is not helpful, so the wife just gave up,” he says. “One case like that, the rumour spread, so no one claims.”
Instead, the couriers have learned to rely on each other. If someone is unable to work after an accident, members of their WhatsApp group typically chip in R50 each to see them through. Funerals prompt the most generous donations. One group recently raised R30 000 to repatriate the remains of a Ugandan courier killed in a crash.
A PAN-AFRICAN community spirit has spread among Joburg’s food couriers, who are united by shared hardships. Typically, half a dozen nationalities are represented at social events. South Africans attend some too.
One Saturday morning a group of couriers pinned colourful balloons to their handlebars and delivery boxes, draped themselves with gaudy garlands of artificial flowers, and rode down the motorway in single file before entering one of Johannesburg’s northern townships. Here, one their colleagues was hosting a traditional wedding ceremony.
In the township, passers-by waved at the bikers as they hooted and zigzagged down the street. Members of the wedding party welcomed them warmly with hoots and cheers when they arrived at the reception.
On public holidays, many couriers gather for a game of five-a-side soccer in a field on the edge of the inner city, opposite a McDonald’s. Of late, South Africans workers at the fast food outlet have joined in too.
Some players are fit and agile; others are out of shape, and lumber across the pitch. Those not playing collect under trees to share a meal of grilled meat, pap (maize porridge), salads and beer. Everyone contributes. Now and then a bike disappears, returning minutes later with a bag of ice or other supplies.
Similar scenes play out in parks all over Johannesburg.
One of the couriers, Raymond, sits on the sidelines. He joins in the general banter, but doesn’t take part in the games. Last year he broke his tibia in a nasty accident, the bone piercing his skin. Now it’s held together with steel screws. “I can feel when the weather is going to become cold a day before it changes,” he declares. “Then my leg starts to hurt.”
Some names have been changed to protect riders. During the course of this project, more than 50 food couriers were photographed and interviewed. They worked for different food delivery services. Many expressed the fear that they would be “blocked”, punished or prevented from working, merely for sharing their stories.
Text by Stephan Hofstatter and James Oatway.
Photography by James Oatway.
