Have we Healed From SA Xenophobia?

Xenophobia had become a wound that refused to heal in parts of South Africa. In crowded streets, busy taxi ranks, and marketplaces, whispers of anger often turned into violence. Many of the victims were immigrants from Nigeria and other African nations who had travelled south in search of peace, opportunity, and dignity.

Among them was Chinedu, a young Nigerian father living in Johannesburg. Every morning before sunrise, he opened his small electronics repair shop. He worked honestly, paid rent, and dreamed of saving enough money to educate his daughter back home. To his neighbors, he was simply “the quiet man who fixed phones.” But one evening, everything changed.

A crowd stormed through the street shouting that foreigners were taking jobs, businesses, and opportunities from South Africans. Shops were vandalized. Windows shattered. Smoke filled the air. Chinedu watched helplessly as the little shop he had built over five years was destroyed within minutes. He did not fight back. He simply stood there, holding a small family photograph he had rescued from the flames.

What hurt him most was not the loss of property. It was the words he heard:

“You foreigners are benefiting while South Africans suffer.”

Days later, while sheltering in a church hall with other displaced migrants, Chinedu listened to radio discussions where some South Africans defended their frustrations by pointing to giant corporations such as MTN, Shoprite, Stanbic Bank, and DStv. They argued that these companies had expanded across Africa, created jobs for other nationals, and contributed greatly to many African economies.

But an elderly Ghanaian teacher in the shelter quietly asked a question that silenced the room:

“Who truly owns the wealth of Africa? Are these giant corporations controlled by ordinary black Africans, or by the same systems of power and inequality left behind by colonialism? Why do poor Africans fight one another while the truly powerful remain untouched?”

The room fell silent.

A South African volunteer named Thabo, who had come to deliver food, sat down beside Chinedu. He admitted that many local youths were frustrated by unemployment, poverty, and inequality. Yet he also confessed something painful:

“We were taught to blame the foreigner standing next to us instead of questioning the structures keeping all of us poor.”

For the first time, Chinedu and Thabo truly saw each other — not as enemies, but as brothers trapped in the same struggle.

As weeks passed, people from different African countries began holding community dialogues. Kenyans, Zimbabweans, Nigerians, South Africans, Congolese, and Ghanaians gathered together, asking difficult questions:

1. Why does Africa remain divided despite sharing the same history of oppression?
2. Why do Africans celebrate multinational success stories but fail to protect fellow Africans?
3. Why is the anger of the poor often directed at other poor people instead of systems of corruption, inequality, and exploitation?
4. 
   

The discussions were emotional. Some cried. Some argued. But many agreed on one truth: xenophobia was not just a South African problem — it was an African problem.

The story of Chinedu became a symbol across communities. Not because he lost a shop, but because he chose forgiveness over hatred. When asked why he stayed in South Africa despite everything, he answered softly:

“Africa is my home too. If we Africans cannot live with one another, then who will fight for Africa?”

His words spread far beyond Johannesburg.

And slowly, people began to understand that no African nation can truly rise by tearing another African down. The future of the continent depends not on fear, division, or blame, but on unity, honest conversation, fair opportunities, and shared humanity.