On Monday last week, I was struck by the front page of The Daily Times. The headline read:
‘Humanity shines through the hole of Afrophobia’.
The story spoke of Malawians fleeing Afrophobia in South Africa, returning home with almost nothing. The accompanying photograph showed families leaving the Malawi Consulate in South Africa by bus, children clutching bags on a journey of no return.
It captured a moment of humanity shining through, but also served as a stark reminder of the pain behind the journey.
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It prompted me to reflect on the human cost of Afrophobia. Hence this piece. It is about the side we often choose not to discuss.
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It also brings back memories of my years on government duty in South Africa where, in 2016, I interacted with Malawians caught up in similar attacks.
Over the years, and even more so this year, we have heard claims that have now found their way into some Amapiano lyrics: ‘foreigners are taking jobs’, ‘foreigners are taking our women’ and ‘foreigners are promoting crime’.
Yet behind those words are real people whose ordinary lives are suddenly torn apart. The
irony is striking. They are all Africans. Hence the shift from Xenophobia to Afrophobia.
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Eluby, from Malawi, never missed church in Mamelodi where I joined fellow Malawians every Sunday.
For 10 years, she lived quietly in Mamelodi West, catching a taxi each morning to Pretoria CBD for domestic work. No crime, no scandal. Just a woman from Makanjira in Mangochi building a life with dignity.
Wadzanai, from Zimbabwe, worked at Illinois Spur in Hatfield, opposite the Standard Bank branch where I banked. She shared a room in a Sunnyside flat while raising her two children back home.
Whenever my family dined at Illinois, she served us with a smile. Every tip she earned helped support her family in Mutare.
Then there was Nana from Ghana. He travelled from Accra, opened a beauty parlour in Hatfield and later bought a taxi to operate as an Uber driver. He transported people and delivered food. Not drugs, not crime. Just hard work and persistence.
Then one day, neighbours wake up and decide these people must go. Fellow Africans turn against their own brothers and sisters. Homes are raided, businesses looted and families chased away, all in the name of dealing with foreigners.
Pause for a moment and reflect. Having worked in South Africa, I immediately recognised that the anger was once again being directed at the wrong people.
It was aimed at fellow Africans like Eluby, Wadzanai and Nana, not at those responsible for crime or corruption. These are people living on the margins, trying to earn an honest living with dignity.
South Africa’s pain is real. Apartheid fractured families through forced removals under the Group Areas Act, first enacted in 1950 as a cornerstone of apartheid policy. It was re-enacted in 1957 and again in 1966 before finally being abolished in 1991.
The apartheid system imposed harsh pass laws and drove many young men into exile to join the liberation struggle.
It left deep scars of inequality and generations carrying unresolved trauma, despite the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
The migrant labour system also separated fathers from their families, sending them to mines and hostels far from home while mothers struggled to keep households together under crushing poverty. Many young people dropped out of school. Some joined the armed struggle while others worked in the mines. Communities were shaped by absence, broken relationships and the silence of loss.
Even after democracy arrived in 1994 with promises of jobs, better social services and dignity, many of those hopes remain unfulfilled.
The anger born from this history and reinforced by unmet expectations is understandable, but it is too often misdirected.
Instead of demanding accountability from those who exploit, corrupt and destroy, that anger is unleashed on the vulnerable.
It overlooks a deeper truth: much of the economy remains concentrated in the hands of a few while the majority continue waiting for the promises of 1994 to become reality. Year after year the cycle repeats.
Every time a busload of Malawians returns home with nothing, every time a Zimbabwean mother loses her job overnight and every time a Ghanaian or Nigerian entrepreneur watches a business go up in flames, we witness the same tragedy. For how long?
The tragedy lies not only in looted shops or abandoned homes. It is found in broken families, shattered trust and silenced dreams.
Until we, together with our South African brothers and sisters, confront the truth that Xenophobia, or Afrophobia, is merely a symptom of deeper wounds, the wrong people will continue to suffer.
The anger will keep destroying families instead of helping rebuild them.
