The Marabi Club is hard to find, but impossible to forget.
Words – Sophie Baker \ Pics – The Marabi Club
The streets of Johannesburg’s inner city are worn, their edges softened by time. Old buildings rise in faded shades of ochre and brown, graffiti scrawled across their walls. In the heart of it, a far cry from the polished facades and bright lights Sandton, is The Marabi Club.
Shaped by the underground jazz scene of the 1920s, the entrance is discreet. Most visitors to Africa’s richest city never venture into this part of town, let alone take an unmarked elevator down into the basement of former diamond-polishing factory turned hotel.
The doors slide open into a world where the room glows gold and blue, with light bouncing off chandeliers onto polished wooden tables and an illuminated ‘20s New York-style bar. Part jazz club, part restaurant, part speakeasy, and all character, The Marabi Club isn’t designed to be stumbled upon.
Marabi music was born in the illegal shebeens of 1920s Johannesburg, where jazz thrived in hidden spaces, out of sight but never out of mind. The quick, looping melodies and rollicking rhythms gave the city’s working-class neighbourhoods a defiant, underground soundtrack. That legacy is stitched into every corner of the club: in the low-lit bar gleaming with cut-glass decanters, in the brass detailing that catches the light just so, and in the music. A deep, honeyed saxophone, a keyboard rolling out a melody as rich as molasses, and a bassline all settle into your bones for the night. The club channels the spirit of a bygone era, but without the pretence of a themed concept. It feels authentic because it is.
“We wanted people to come for the food as much as the music,” says managing director Dale De Ruig. “It had to be both, otherwise it wouldn’t last.” It works because every detail feels carefully thought out.
At your table, the first plates begin to arrive: dishes made to be passed around the table between sips of something dark and smooth. Chef Freddie Dias, whose tenure at The Pot Luck Club and Séjour speaks to his mastery of layered, unexpected flavours, curates a menu designed for sharing. “When you come to Marabi, I want you to leave feeling like you’ve had a night at the theatre. It’s a whole experience, a memory. Not just a dinner” he says. “You don’t want a formal multi-course meal here. You want to be able to enjoy the music, share food casually.” And that’s exactly what the menu does. The Marabi bread course lands first, served with chakalaka, amasi curd, and bone marrow. The tempura mushrooms disappear fast, dipped into seaweed mayo. Later, perhaps the slow cooked lamb belly, which is expertly lifted with red pepper marmalade and zhoug yogurt dressing.
Then, the music takes over. A bassline thrums through the wooden floors, a saxophone weaves through the air, and the Marabi Quartet locks in, shifting the pace seamlessly to match the energy of the room. Some guests lean in or take to the dancefloor, caught up in the rhythm. Others sink into their chairs, letting it wash over them.
“People love Marabi, but it’s a commitment to come here,” De Ruin admits. There is no sign outside announcing this place, no neon to lure in passersby. You have to seek it out, and that’s part of its magic. The Marabi Club is not a place to drop in for a quick drink. A night here unfolds in chapters.
Those who do come have made a decision to be here. And when they leave, they do so knowing they’ve been part of something rare. And yet, those who find it once always return.
Long after the last note fades, Marabi is still there, waiting for those who know where to look. For all of Johannesburg’s reinventions, there are still places that feel untouched by time. The Marabi Club is one of them. And when you finally step back onto Siemert Road with the last notes of a saxophone fading into the night, you release you’ve just seen a side of Johannesburg most will never find.
Essentials:
To help you find this Joburg gem, call: +27 10 591 2879