SOUTH Africa’s Justice Minister, Mmamoloko Kubayi, recently admitted what has long been obvious to the rest of Africa: xenophobic attacks are damaging South Africa’s image abroad.
Her warning came amid yet another wave of violence against African migrants, with reports of killings, assaults, looting of businesses, displacement of families and the forced repatriation of citizens from countries such as Nigeria, Ghana, Malawi and Mozambique.
The minister’s acknowledgement is welcome, but it also raises a troubling question: how many times must Africa witness the same shameful spectacle before South Africa confronts the deeper roots of its recurring xenophobic nightmare?
For more than two decades, xenophobic violence has erupted with disturbing regularity in South Africa.
One cannot help but wonder what Nelson Mandela would think if he could witness these scenes today: Africans hunted by Africans, migrants living in fear, and the ideals of solidarity tarnished by hatred. It is difficult to imagine anything other than profound sorrow. For every drop of innocent African blood spilled on South African soil diminishes the legacy of reconciliation, dignity and Pan-African brotherhood that Mandela championed throughout his life.
The horrors of 2008, when more than 60 people were killed and tens of thousands displaced, remain etched in Africa’s collective memory. The attacks of 2015 in Durban and Johannesburg followed the same ugly pattern: foreign-owned businesses looted, migrants hunted, and entire communities terrorised.
In 2019, violence again targeted African migrants, particularly Nigerians, Zimbabweans and Somalis, triggering diplomatic tensions across the continent.
Today, in 2026, South Africa is once again contending with yet another xenophobic attacks on fellow Africans, fuelled by anti-immigrant rhetoric and the dangerous scapegoating of foreigners for unemployment, crime and economic hardship.
The tragedy is not merely that these attacks continue; it is that they have become cyclical, predictable and, in the eyes of many observers, insufficiently confronted by those with the responsibility to stop them.
Every fresh outbreak is followed by official condemnations, promises of investigations and appeals for calm. Yet the violence returns, often in even more organised forms, suggesting that the underlying cause remains untreated.
There is no denying that South Africa faces enormous socio-economic challenges. High unemployment, inequality, crime and frustrations over poor governance have created fertile ground for populist narratives. But no economic hardship can justify the targeting of innocent people solely because of where they come from. No grievance can excuse the burning of shops, the destruction of livelihoods, or the spilling of blood on the basis of nationality.
More troubling is the historical amnesia that appears to accompany these attacks. The democratic South Africa of today did not emerge from isolation or xenophobic sentiment. The struggle against Apartheid was sustained by the solidarity, sacrifice and generosity of countless African nations as a result of the oppressively inhuman features inherent in the system. Countries across the continent opened their borders to South African exiles. They provided sanctuary, education, training and diplomatic support. Many accepted economic and political costs for standing against the racist Apartheid regime.
Nigeria occupies a particularly prominent place in that history. For decades, successive Nigerian governments provided financial assistance to the liberation struggle, funded educational programmes for South African students and mobilised international pressure against Apartheid.
Ghana, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Angola and numerous others also played pivotal roles. African states offered safe havens to liberation fighters, hosted political movements and, in some cases, paid a heavy price for their solidarity. The struggle against Apartheid was never solely South Africa’s struggle; it became Africa’s struggle.
That historical reality makes today’s scenes all the more painful. When African migrants are attacked in South African townships and cities, it is not simply a law-and-order problem; but rather a betrayal of a shared continental history. It is a rejection of the very spirit of Pan-African solidarity that helped secure South Africa’s freedom from the barbaric system.
Until South Africa decisively confronts this recurring stain on its national conscience, the shadows of xenophobia will continue to haunt not only its image abroad, but also its moral standing within the African family.
Some may argue that many of those involved in the attacks were born after Apartheid and therefore cannot be held responsible for the past. That is true. They did not create Apartheid, nor did they directly experience the sacrifices made by other African nations. But that is precisely why the burden falls heavily on South Africa’s leaders.
A nation that fails to teach its history risks repeating its moral failures. Every generation of South Africans should know that freedom was not won alone. They should learn how African countries welcomed South African refugees, provided scholarships, supported liberation movements and stood firmly against one of the most brutal systems of racial oppression in modern history. Historical gratitude cannot solve unemployment or crime, but it can foster empathy, perspective and a sense of moral obligation towards fellow Africans.
Instead, the persistence of xenophobia suggests a troubling failure of political and civic education. Worse still, some politicians have chosen to weaponize anti-immigrant sentiment for electoral advantage, reinforcing dangerous narratives that foreigners are responsible for South Africa’s woes. Such rhetoric may generate short-term political gains, but it carries devastating long-term consequences. It legitimises prejudice, emboldens vigilante groups and undermines social cohesion.
The damage extends beyond South Africa’s borders. The country’s reputation as a continental leader is increasingly undermined by images of Africans fleeing violence on its streets. Businesses face backlash. Cultural exchanges suffer. Diplomatic relationships become strained. More importantly, the dream of African unity suffers another wound each time an African is attacked simply for being foreign.
South Africa remains a nation of immense promise, extraordinary resilience and remarkable achievements. It is home to countless citizens who reject xenophobia and continue to defend the values of tolerance and human dignity. But good intentions from the silent majority are not enough. The recurring pattern of violence demands stronger political leadership, more effective law enforcement and a sustained effort to confront the prejudices that continue to fester beneath the surface.
Ultimately, the bloody shadows of xenophobia hanging over South Africa are a profound shame. They stand as a painful testament to a collective failure of tolerance, leadership and historical memory. They mock the sacrifices made by African nations that stood shoulder to shoulder with South Africans during the darkest days of Apartheid.
One cannot help but wonder what Nelson Mandela would think if he could witness these scenes today: Africans hunted by Africans, migrants living in fear, and the ideals of solidarity tarnished by hatred. It is difficult to imagine anything other than profound sorrow. For every drop of innocent African blood spilled on South African soil diminishes the legacy of reconciliation, dignity and Pan-African brotherhood that Mandela championed throughout his life.
Until South Africa decisively confronts this recurring stain on its national conscience, the shadows of xenophobia will continue to haunt not only its image abroad, but also its moral standing within the African family.
