If you watched Strictly Come Dancing in 2018, chances are Johannes Radebe caught your eye. He wasn’t yet known, but, through the group dances performed by the professionals, it became clear that Radebe was a star who couldn’t be contained for long. A year later, he was given his first celebrity partner (the actor Catherine Tyldesley) and performed the series’ first same-sex dance – in heels, no less – with his fellow dancer Graziano Di Prima.
Vogueing in black stilettos alongside Di Prima felt like “my coming-out party”, he says: “There was something very empowering about saying: this is who I am. I said to myself: enough of the shame, enough of hiding, just enough.” By 2021, when he was dancing with the baker John Whaite as one half of the show’s first male couple, Radebe had become one of Strictly’s most beloved stars.
Leaving aside his stage outfits – a green beaded jumpsuit was a highlight in the most recent series – Radebe has been known to step out in heels and a ballgown for special occasions, such as when Strictly picked up a National Television award last year. Today, though, he is dressed in sportswear, a big quilted coat protecting him from the cold.
A few days ago, Radebe, who is South African, took the Life in the UK test in preparation to settle here. It was hard, he says, but he passed. “I got out of there thinking I might be deported,” he says, smiling. With the test – and the months of studying – over, Radebe has thrown himself into creating his third dance show, House of Jojo, which begins its UK tour at the end of March.
It’s a stretch to say that a piece of immigration bureaucracy inspired the show, but it made him wonder about the overlaps. What is the history of House of Jojo? What are its values? “I really want it to reflect the world I live in,” he says. “People have been given opportunities by coming to this country. It is made up of a lot of people that come from outside. As long as you obey the law, you’re guaranteed democracy and freedom. There is space to exist.”
Radebe is the draw, of course, but House of Jojo is about bringing others along. He has assembled a diverse cast of dancers, including some from places where it’s hard to get a UK visa. Others have been denied opportunities in the past because they don’t fit the traditional idea of how a dancer should look. “It’s been a beautiful process, because I’m not alone during this,” he says of his creative team.
Radebe says he wouldn’t be where he is without the people who helped him: his local community, which chipped in for transport to dance competitions; his coaches, who spent hours nurturing him; the power brokers who gave him chances once his career was quickstepping along. “I’m not blind to the fact that it was everybody’s effort,” he says.
Radebe grew up in Zamdela, a mining township in the Free State, in the final years of apartheid. He was too young to be much aware of it; he didn’t question why, when driving through white suburbs in a minibus on the way to church, some people had huge houses and swimming pools behind barbed-wire fences, while his family lived in a small bungalow, in which he shared a room with his older sister and his grandmother. “You just think: ‘This is where I come from and this is where they come from,’” he says.
“Now, understanding the fear – to know that our parents lived in fear while they were raising kids – that still affects our society. There’s a gap that needs to be bridged – and soon, because it’s dire what’s happening to youngsters in South Africa. So, have I experienced apartheid? No, but do I know the effects of it? I see them every day.”
As a child, did he know he was different from other boys? “From the start,” he says with a laugh. “In terms of mannerisms, things I was interested in – Barbies were my thing.” He loved to make clothes for his sister’s dolls and dress them; when his father, who worked for Coca-Cola, gave the children money to spend in a shop, Radebe chose his own doll. When his parents discovered this, it was met with silence, but not shaming.
That came when Radebe started school. He was marked out as a “sissy boy”. Sometimes, he would be chased home by boys and threatened with violence. Even adults would verbally abuse him. “Conservative beliefs,” he says. “‘An African is an African and a man is a man.’ That is my Zulu uncles talking.” Later, they would constantly ask him when he would find a wife: “It’s not going to happen.” He smiles. “Those were daily conversations.”
There were glimmers of light – his mother was supportive and he made friends with two other boys who were going through the same thing. But mostly it was about survival: “I used to hide a lot. I would run away from anything threatening.” He felt relaxed with his sister or his friends around, “but the minute people disappeared, I never felt safe”. It must have been frightening, I say. “Frightening, yes,” he says, softly. One of his friends was beaten up so badly, after being spotted playing with dolls with Radebe, that he missed school.
It is no exaggeration to say that dance saved Radebe. He stumbled into a class at the local recreation hall by accident when he was seven, and fell in love. It rebuilt his self-esteem and confidence and his growing reputation as a dancer offered a level of protection from his attackers. It also provided an outlet when his family life fell apart and his parents separated. Radebe says it gave him “a sense of belonging, a sense of worth. To get applause made me feel like somebody, for however long it lasted. I knew there was a world where I didn’t have to feel ashamed, because people understood where I came from. When I went back into the real world, everything seemed so bland. That dance world was sparkly, kind, it was accommodating.”
Radebe started competing in Latin and ballroom competitions, raising money from neighbours to pay for transport and accommodation. His world was opening, but so were his eyes. It was the first time he really saw the inequalities of race and class. Competitions weren’t based on talent alone; grooming and presentation were vital. The couples with better, more expensive costumes – almost always white – would take the top prizes.
He remembers, after coming fourth, asking one of the judges for advice on how he and his partner might improve. “I remember him saying: ‘You will never win. Look at you, you look unkempt.’ And to my partner: ‘Your body type is wrong for this dance.’”
As one of the top couples in their province, Radebe and his partner had been invited to compete internationally, but that was financially impossible. Some rival couples paid for private tuition with adjudicators before competitions, but that wasn’t an option. It felt as though kids from townships could never win. “If I had to dwell on that, I wouldn’t have survived this industry or this world,” he says. “That is why there’s so few of us. But it was painful. There’s a million times when I felt: why am I even trying?” They were often the only Black couple to make the finals. “My coach used to say: ‘Listen to the audience; they will let you know whether you won or not.’” Radebe and his partner would get the loudest cheers, but not the highest scores.
His partner walked away. “She said: ‘I don’t want to do this, it’s not fun.’ I was stupid enough to hold on, because I didn’t know what to do without this.” He laughs, but he is downplaying his determination. Was he always so strong? He takes a long pause. “No. I’ve had people that loved me hard, that showed me that whatever I wanted in life, I could achieve, and that’s what got me through it,” he says.
It was partly about being young in the nascent post-apartheid era. He was constantly told how lucky he was: “You were reminded with breakfast, lunch and dinner, every time your mother had an opportunity to remind you that you have been afforded an opportunity to make something of your life.”
Did it feel like pressure, or empowering? “It felt both – and it left a lot of people crippled. I look at my own family and the lack of education, lack of opportunity, has led to a desperation in people. It does boil down to you as an individual to make a choice, that I’m not going to accept what has been dealt to me. There are people that have risen above that and there are people that haven’t been able to.”
Radebe’s mother was persuaded to let him leave home at 13 and move in with a dance coach couple in a different province; they had spotted his potential and could offer him bigger opportunities in nearby Johannesburg. He hoped going to a new school would be better, but the homophobic bullying was worse. “I was trying to stand my ground and stand up to my bullies, but I would be bashed,” he says. Once, he was viciously attacked in the school toilets by a group of boys. On the day of his final exam, he remembers telling himself that he never had to return. “I wanted to leave that world far behind. And I have.”
He was cast in a stage show, then became a dance teacher in Johannesburg, but he was earning so little that he couldn’t afford an apartment. Instead, he would pay friendly taxi drivers a small amount to sleep in the back of their cabs, or he would secretly stay overnight in the dance studio. Going to gay clubs, Radebe became aware that there was often a transactional relationship between older white men and young Black men. Sometimes, he would ask to stay in a spare room, but made it clear there would be nothing in it for them; often, they let him. When one of these men tried to sexually assault him, Radebe escaped. His life, he decided, had become too unstable and dangerous.
A friend encouraged him to audition for a job as a dancer on cruise ships; he spent the next seven years performing. Then he was cast in South Africa’s version of Strictly, but couldn’t let go of the fact that he hadn’t yet won a South African dance title. “I wasn’t going to let those adjudicators tell me that I was never going to win. And that’s exactly what I did. I won the [national Latin] title, not once, but twice.” He smiles.
As the reigning champion, he fired off a confident email to the producers of Burn the Floor, a successful ballroom and Latin show of which he was desperate to be a part. Touring with that show, he caught the eye of the producers of British Strictly and was asked to join the cast. Being invited on to the original show felt like validation: “It felt like I was being rewarded for sticking it out.”
It has changed his life, he says, and his family’s life. “I know that my family is OK and that is what I’ve always wanted,” he says. Radebe’s father died when he was a teenager; he has always considered himself his family’s breadwinner. Recently, he was able to build his mother a house.
It had always been his dream to dance with another man. When he started dancing at seven, he asked if he could dance with a boy and was told no. “You can imagine what it did for my shame, thinking that I always had to hide that about me. I’ve always asked myself: what would that feel like? The fact that we got to do it, I knew how many people would have looked at that moment and felt seen.”
In the 2021 series, he and Whaite – not only the first male couple, but also the first gay partnership – reached the final. In any other year, they would have won (they were beaten by the luminous Rose Ayling-Ellis). I challenge anyone to watch their last dance, completely joyful and free, and not well up.
“I’ve seen what that has done for so many people, and I hear the stories still today,” says Radebe. “That’s how I know that we’ve left the world a better place, just by doing what we do. It’s humbling, and it feels great to be part of history in that regard. I would have loved to exist in a world where I didn’t have to be ashamed of myself. There was never anything wrong with me, yet the society around me made me believe there was.”
To have such support from the public felt like “a hug”, he says. “After that you couldn’t touch me. I can’t tell you what it did for my confidence. Thanks to John, as well. My relationships have changed since then with people in my life that are close to me.” His uncles stopped asking when he would be finding a wife.
This isn’t to say it has been easy. He is careful now with social media, because the abuse got so bad: “People would tell me and John that we were disgusting, that I should never come back to Africa, that I’m a disgrace.” He has learned not to engage and to try to ignore it. “I’ve created a world where that has no impact on me any more. It’s not me that has a problem. If they’re willing to learn, come to House of Jojo; I’ll educate you. What I do, and how I live my life, can never be based on what other people think. I want to create a world that I see in my head – and it’s of love and of kindness.”
Later, I spend a lovely afternoon rewatching clips of Radebe dancing – it’s a strange alchemy of precision, energy and lightness – but mostly I think about the little boy, bullied, ashamed and disadvantaged, who just kept going. “Honestly, never in my wildest dreams,” he had said earlier, about his career. None of it was planned and there were plenty of people who told him he would never make it. “I pinch myself, because I’m like: how? But I’ve got incredible people that hold me up. That’s how I’ve survived. It was never about money, it was never about being known. I’ve always danced because it brought me happiness and joy.”
House of Jojo tours the UK from 29 March
