In a dusty corner of Johannesburg's Organic Market informal settlement, a group of men has gathered to address a problem that has plagued South Africa for generations: men hitting women. Revolutionary stuff, we know.
"I witness men hitting women all the time," says Kgomotso Mathekga, 30, because apparently that needed saying out loud. "Especially when they are both drunk." Mathekga himself admits to having grabbed and slapped his girlfriend during an argument - a confession offered with the kind of candour that suggests he's recently discovered introspection. "Now I feel pain," he continues. "We broke up and I no longer see my child. I feel like I've contributed to the problems in South Africa, instead of being the gentleman that I know I am." The gentleman he knows he is, presumably, was on sabbatical.
The gathering is organised by Father A Nation, a non-profit that works with men and boys to promote positive masculinity - a phrase that shouldn't need to exist but absolutely does. At a nearby tavern, men pull chairs into a circle in the dust while Itumeleng Stephen Tamaga, known locally as Bra Steve, stands at the centre. The group claps and cheers. Some sip bottled beer. "Listen guys," Bra Steve says. "We must stand together to fight against gender-based violence and femicide." It's a compelling pitch, delivered in a setting where the audience is at least sober enough to listen.
The timing is not coincidental. South Africa is grappling with renewed anger over cases of femicide and violence against women, following the discovery of the bodies of 12 women over three months in Ekurhuleni, near Johannesburg. The country has one of the highest murder rates in the world, with 5,427 people murdered between April and June this year alone. According to the South African Human Rights Commission, 569 women were killed in that period - an average of six a day - and 1,052 others survived attempted murder. A 2022 report by the Human Sciences Research Council found that more than 35% of South African women experienced physical or sexual violence, many from their own intimate partners. So yes, the tavern meeting is probably overdue.
President Cyril Ramaphosa has acknowledged that his government has not done enough and announced measures he hopes can make women feel safer, including better street lighting and a review of unsolved cases. Zizipho Mtwesi, project co-ordinator of Father A Nation, is unimpressed. "When I think about all of these recent murders in Johannesburg, I get angry," he says. "Why do we have to wait for this to happen for us to act?" A fair question, though one suspects the answer involves the phrase "because governments generally react rather than prevent."
Craig Wilkinson, founder of the group, explains the methodology: "We get men to talk, to process their feelings. And as they do, this healing takes place. And the second phase is teaching and training positive masculinity. We ultimately hope that this will eliminate the scourge of gender-based violence." He then stands, moves to the centre of the group, and delivers what we can only assume is a stirring monologue: "You as a man are a powerful force for good. You choose what kind of man you want to be. Women need to be safe." Father A Nation operates across South Africa, running training programmes in dozens of schools and colleges, presumably because the traditional curriculum of "don't hit women" wasn't getting through.
Meanwhile, mystery surrounds the spate of murders that sparked this latest moment of soul-searching. Police have not ruled out potential links between some of the Ekurhuleni deaths but have not said they are investigating a serial killer. Suspects in some cases have appeared in court. In Organic Market, women are more fearful than ever. Outside a nearby shack, Linkie cleans clothes in a large metal bucket and explains: "We are not safe when we are outside our place. We are afraid when we see a car behind us when we walk. We feel afraid. We feel scared. What if this guy's going to kidnap me or do something to me?"
At the local hair salon, Providence Maseko - sporting a mane of thick pink braids - comes to the door to speak to Bra Steve. "Safety here is very bad," she says. "Maybe you are the serial killer. How do I know who to trust?" Bra Steve laughs. "We must talk about these things," he urges. "Come to our meetings and we can learn to trust each other." Maseko tells the BBC she now takes an e-hailing taxi everywhere in the hope that it is safer. A reasonable precaution, if an expensive one.
Back at the tavern, the meeting wraps up. "As we try to stop gender-based violence," says Zizipho, "each and every man needs to know that they need to play a part in this. And if they wouldn't allow these things to happen to their own daughters or own mothers, they mustn't allow it to be done to someone else's daughter, which is their wives or their girlfriends." It's a simple message, delivered with the kind of clarity that suggests it shouldn't need repeating. And yet.
Mathekga is impressed. "I would love them to keep on practising what we have learned, because we no longer have role models," he says. "Our fathers and our uncles, they are there in prison. We must now become role models and help make this country better." It's a modest goal: become the role model you wish to see in the world. But in a country where 569 women were killed in three months, modest goals might be the only ones that stick.