By Richard Odusanya

“Olodo,” a popular Nigerian expression derived from the Yoruba language, literally refers to a dullard or one who is intellectually deficient. While the term emerged largely as a humorous label in entertainment and social media, it has gradually acquired a deeper political and sociological meaning. Increasingly, it is invoked to describe a culture in which critical thinking is displaced by unquestioning loyalty, evidence yields to propaganda, and mediocrity is elevated above competence.

This trend should concern every democrat. No nation can sustainably prosper where knowledge is routinely dismissed, expertise is treated with suspicion, and informed public discourse gives way to emotional appeals and political theatre. Anti-intellectualism is not merely an academic concern; it is a governance challenge with profound implications for public institutions, economic development, national security, and the rule of law.

A government that consistently undervalues evidence-based decision-making weakens its own capacity to solve complex national problems. When professional advice is subordinated to political expediency, institutions gradually lose credibility, public confidence erodes, and accountability becomes increasingly difficult to enforce. Facts become negotiable, while narratives become instruments of political convenience.

History offers numerous examples of societies where the systematic erosion of intellectual independence preceded institutional decline. Whenever governments become uncomfortable with scrutiny, they are often tempted to delegitimize experts, dismiss inconvenient evidence, and portray dissenting voices as enemies rather than contributors to national progress. Such an environment impoverishes public debate and deprives policymakers of the very ideas needed to address pressing national challenges.

Equally troubling is the tendency for political loyalty to become a substitute for competence. Where appointments and public trust are determined more by unquestioning allegiance than by merit, institutions inevitably weaken. The result is not simply poor governance but an ecosystem in which inefficiency, waste, and abuse of public office become increasingly difficult to distinguish from normal administrative practice.

Recent public debates surrounding official responses to allegations of misconduct illustrate this broader concern. Citizens reasonably expect government spokespersons not merely to defend administrations but to strengthen public confidence through transparency, verifiable facts, and respect for due process. Responses that appear dismissive of legitimate public concerns risk deepening cynicism at a time when trust in public institutions is already under considerable strain. In democratic governance, credibility is earned less through rhetoric than through openness, accountability, and demonstrable adherence to the rule of law.

Nigeria’s paradox remains both striking and painful. A nation abundantly blessed with human capital and natural resources continues to struggle with inadequate healthcare, declining educational standards, poor infrastructure, youth unemployment, and widespread insecurity. The challenge is not the absence of national wealth but the effectiveness, transparency, and integrity with which that wealth is managed. Every diversion of public resources represents schools not built, hospitals not equipped, roads not completed, and opportunities denied to millions of citizens.

The challenge is compounded by weaknesses within the justice system. Corruption and abuse-of-office cases involving politically exposed persons frequently experience prolonged delays, often arising from complex procedural litigation and repeated interlocutory applications. Whatever the legal justification for such delays, their cumulative effect is to weaken public confidence in the administration of justice and reinforce perceptions that accountability is unevenly applied.

The consequences extend far beyond financial losses. Governance failures have measurable social costs. Resources diverted from education, healthcare, infrastructure, agriculture, security, and youth development inevitably contribute to unemployment, poverty, social disillusionment, and, ultimately, heightened insecurity. Corruption, therefore, is not simply an economic offence; it is a development challenge and, in many respects, a national security concern.

The real danger, however, lies in the normalization of these conditions. When citizens become accustomed to celebrating routine governmental responsibilities as extraordinary achievements, when evidence is routinely subordinated to political narratives, and when public debate rewards slogans more than substance, democratic accountability is weakened. Nations do not decline solely because of resource constraints; they decline when they cease to prize integrity, competence, critical inquiry, and institutional excellence.

Nigeria’s future will depend not on the triumph of personalities but on the strength of its institutions. Our democracy requires leaders who welcome informed criticism rather than fear it; citizens who ask difficult questions rather than surrender independent judgment; and public institutions that regard transparency not as a burden but as the foundation of legitimacy.

The antidote to anti-intellectualism is neither elitism nor technocracy divorced from the people. It is a renewed national commitment to evidence-based policymaking, meritocracy, constitutionalism, institutional accountability, and civic responsibility. Democracies flourish when ideas compete freely, when truth is valued above expediency, and when those entrusted with public office recognise that the highest form of leadership is service guided by knowledge, integrity, and respect for the intelligence of the people.

@richardODUSANYA

[email protected]

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

By Richard Odusanya

On this day, July 7, 2026, Nigerians at home and across the diaspora commemorate the 28th anniversary of the passing of Bashorun Moshood Kashimawo Olawale (M.K.O.) Abiola—business mogul, entrepreneur, philanthropist, sports promoter, statesman, and the widely acknowledged winner of the historic June 12, 1993 presidential election.

M.K.O. Abiola died on July 7, 1998, while in detention, just as arrangements were reportedly being made for his release. His death marked one of the most painful chapters in Nigeria’s democratic journey. Today, his name remains inseparable from June 12, a date that has rightly become Nigeria’s Democracy Day in recognition of the extraordinary mandate freely given to him by Nigerians.

June 12: A National Mandate Beyond Tribe and Religion

The June 12, 1993 election occupies a unique place in Nigeria’s political history. It demonstrated that Nigerians could rise above ethnic, religious, and regional divisions to vote for competence, hope, and national unity.

Running on his memorable “Farewell to Poverty” campaign, Abiola attracted support from every part of the country. His victory was widely regarded as a genuine national mandate, arguably the broadest electoral consensus ever achieved in Nigeria’s democratic experience.

The election also challenged the long-held belief that national elections in Nigeria could only be won through manipulation, intimidation, or sectional alliances. June 12 proved otherwise.

The Price of Principle

When the election was annulled, Abiola faced a defining choice: accept political compromise in exchange for personal freedom or stand by the mandate freely given to him by millions of Nigerians. He chose principle.

Despite years of detention under military rule, he reportedly refused opportunities that would have required him to renounce his mandate. Whether one agrees with every political decision he made, history remembers him as a man who placed conviction above personal comfort.

His often-quoted declaration, “The only entity I fear is Almighty God,” reflected the courage with which he confronted overwhelming state power.

He ultimately paid the supreme price, dying in detention at the age of 60. The circumstances surrounding his death continue to provoke debate and historical inquiry.

The Long Shadow of the Annulment

The annulment of June 12 represented far more than the cancellation of an election. It interrupted the democratic aspirations of an entire nation.

The crisis reshaped Nigeria’s political trajectory. Military leaders tightened their grip on power, while some politicians who had initially identified with the pro-democracy struggle later aligned with successive administrations. Others remained steadfast in the struggle through organizations such as those whose sustained advocacy helped keep the demand for democracy alive.

Ultimately, the sacrifices of Abiola and countless pro-democracy activists contributed significantly to Nigeria’s return to civilian rule in 1999.

LESSONS FOR TODAY’S NIGERIA
Twenty-eight years after his passing, M.K.O. Abiola’s life continues to offer profound lessons.

First, democracy is not sustained merely by conducting elections; it survives only when the will of the people is respected.

Second, national unity is achievable when leadership appeals to shared aspirations rather than ethnic or religious divisions.

Third, public office should be viewed as a platform for service rather than personal enrichment.

Finally, history reminds us that while power may be temporary, integrity, sacrifice, and courage endure far beyond one’s lifetime.

An Unfinished National Assignment

Although June 12 is now officially recognized as Democracy Day, the ideals that inspired that struggle remain works in progress. Electoral integrity, accountable governance, rule of law, and social justice continue to challenge Nigeria’s democratic development.

The most meaningful tribute to Bashorun M.K.O. Abiola is, therefore, not merely to remember his sacrifice once a year but to build the Nigeria for which he was prepared to sacrifice everything.

As we remember him today, may his life inspire present and future generations to defend truth over expediency, justice over oppression, and national interest over personal ambition.

May his memory continue to remind us that democracy is sustained not by monuments or public holidays but by citizens and leaders who possess the courage to protect the people’s mandate.

May the soul of Bashorun M.K.O. Abiola continues to rest in peace, and may Nigeria never again witness the subversion of the freely expressed will of her people.

One final perspective is this: M.K.O. Abiola’s greatest legacy was not simply that Abiola won an election but that he fundamentally changed Nigerians’ understanding of what was politically possible. June 12 demonstrated that, despite deep ethnic and religious diversity, Nigerians could unite behind a common vision when presented with credible leadership. That lesson remains as relevant today as it was in 1993.

@richardODUSANYA
[email protected]

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

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WHEN an elder defecates in an inappropriate place in the night, when the day breaks, the young ones in the compound are held responsible.”

Translation:

“Ti agbalagba ba s’umi oganjo B’ojumo ba mo, a d’imi ewe”

Consider this too.

“A country that makes its brightest children feel foolish for studying is quietly negotiating its own future downward.”

Pause and think about the above quote and Yoruba saying for a moment and then look around you.

A young Nigerian watches two people struggle and grow.

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One spends ten years becoming a surgeon. Ten years of sleepless nights, anatomy textbooks thicker than family Bibles, examinations that determine whether someone lives or dies, internship, residency, endless sacrifice. While his mates are partying, he is memorising how to cut through arteries and sew back uterus, studying diseases and learning how to save lives.

The second person spends 10 months perfecting content that deliberately celebrates guesswork, comic relief and half-truths. He discovers that acting “olodo” attracts millions of views. He learns that the louder the blunder, the richer the reward.

The more he pretends not to know, the more the algorithm smiles on him.

Then one day, almost a year later, the ‘olodo’ is a celebrity, online celebrity with a nice car. He now lives in a better neighbourhood than the doctor and his fellow university graduates. The content creator decides he is more blessed and so calls the doctor on a livestream.

“D- Doc, come and collect giveaway.”

The audience laughs.

The doctor smiles politely.

But somewhere in that laughter is the ‘gone-too-soon’ of what once was in this community, the death of something precious. And it is not the doctor’s dignity or even his profession. What died is a community’s understanding of what deserves honour.

Now, before y’all misunderstand this conversation, this is not an attack on skit makers, comedians or content creators. I love them. They cheer me up. When I am upset, there are pages I visit. When I want to laugh, dance, learn makeup, DIY gele, even stir worship in my spirit, these great guys are all on my payroll, am I the one on their payroll? Anyhow, we go everywhere together. They are entrepreneurs. Many are hardworking, brilliantly creative and legitimately successful. They have built careers where none existed before, employed people and put Nigerian humour on the global map. I am missing Jesse Adisa and Baba Aaliyah even as I type this.

They deserve every honest Naira they earn.

The problem is not content creation.

The problem is when ignorance becomes a brand.

The problem is when pretending not to know becomes more profitable than striving to know. The problem is when a generation begins to mistake education for foolishness and virality for wisdom.

The worrisome problem is what Nigeria now rewards.

Every society gets more of whatever it celebrates.

Reward integrity, and more people will choose integrity. Reward innovation, and inventors will multiply.

Reward excellence, and children will dream of becoming excellent.

But reward noise, spectacle and instant wealth without asking what values produced them, and don’t be surprised when young people abandon the library for the ring light.

This is the tragedy hidden inside what many now jokingly call the Olodo Uprising.

It didn’t begin on TikTok or Instagram.

It certainly didn’t begin with skit makers.

It began years ago when we quietly started changing the definition of success.

Parents stopped asking, “What do you want to become?” They began asking, “How much are you making?”

The conversation at family gatherings changed.

Nobody asks the young engineer how his designs are coming.

Nobody asks the researcher what breakthrough she has made.

Nobody celebrates the teacher shaping hundreds of young lives.

The loudest applause is reserved for whoever arrives in the most expensive car.

Never mind how he got it.

As long as the convoy is long enough, respect is automatic.

What lesson did we think our children would learn?

Omo Oba Abipa was the last king who reigned at Gboho, according to The Rev Samuel Johnson’s record of the History of the Yorubas. On his deathbed, Prince Abipa’s father made his son promise to return the seat of government to the ancient capital. Upon ascension to the throne, Abipa told his chiefs of the late king’s last wish. These ‘noble men’ tried to dissuade the new king from carrying out his father’s wish but when they couldn’t, they resorted to a deep underhand conspiracy. They conspired to send ‘ghosts and spirits’ to sabotage the movement of the seat of power. They knew the king was going to send emmisaries to check the new site and make sacrifices. The Bashorun sent a hunchback. The Alapinni sent an albino. Th Ashipa sent a leper, the Samu a prognathi, the Laguna a dwarf, the Akiniku a cripple. In Yoruba tradition, all these people because of their ‘handicaps’ are considered special people or ‘Eni Orisa’. Their presence was to scare the king’s advance team to Oyo, for their selfish reasons. These were elders the people looked up to for guidance but they were willing to use the weaknesses of others to feather their already cushy nests. These chiefs were eventually caught in their lies, their pants around their ankles.

The relevance of the story? When old men lay bad precedence, the youths follow their lead. When a father drinks until he’s inebriated, his son most likely may follow his footsteps. And when a community celebrates bad behaviour, it soon becomes a way of life.

Children are excellent observers.

They notice what we clap for. They notice who gets invited to the high table and who becomes the star attraction at weddings.

They notice who receives chieftaincy titles and adjust their dreams accordingly.

Then we complain that young people no longer value education.

Really?

Did we value it? Did we uphold that value?

We told children to read hard.

Then they watched graduates roam the streets for years looking for jobs.

We preached patience.

Then they watched some people become millionaires overnight.

We told them that education is the key.

Then they watched connections kick down doors that certificates could not even knock on.

We cannot keep sending one message with our mouths and another with our actions.

That contradiction has become one of Nigeria’s greatest teachers.

Government has not helped either.

A nation that genuinely values education does not leave its manufacturing sector unprotected, unencouraged.

It does not watch multibillion investments leave with thousands of jobs and job opportunities in tow while it celebrates political appointments.

It does not budget generously for luxury cars while laboratories decay.

How many children today dream of becoming professors?

How many dream of becoming scientists?

How many dream of discovering a vaccine, designing a satellite or revolutionising agriculture?

We know they do not lack ability. They are brilliant, ambitious but society has quietly whispered to them that those dreams no longer pay.

Unfortunately, social media amplifies everything. Algorithms don’t reward depth.

They reward attention and attention is not always intelligence.

Sometimes it is simply entertainment.

Yes, entertainment has its place.

A nation needs laughter.

God knows Nigerians have earned the right to laugh. But when laughter begins to mock learning, we are no longer laughing together.

We are laughing at our own future.

The irony there is painful.

The influencer who ridicules education still depends on educated people every single day. The plane he boards was designed by engineers.

The doctor who treats him spent years studying.

The lawyer who protects his contracts did not learn law on YouTube.

The software powering his social media platforms was built by programmers.

The bank safeguarding his earnings relies on economists, accountants and technology experts.

Civilisation rests on knowledge.

No country has ever danced its way into development. Nigeria won’t be an exception.

No nation has joked itself into prosperity.

The universe will not allow Nigeria growth on jokes.

No economy has become globally competitive by making ignorance fashionable.

Nigerians will pay the price before it gets the prize.

This is why parents must also look in the mirror.

Have we taught our children that success is only measured by money? Did we remember to teach them that respect should follow character?

Did we show them that excellence matters even when it is not immediately profitable?

Or did we become so dazzled by wealth that we forgot to ask what kind of person stood behind it?

Children inherit values more than vocabulary. If all they hear is, “Make money,” they will make money the only god worth serving.

But if they hear, “Become useful. Become excellent. Build something that outlives you,” then they will understand that wealth is a consequence, not a purpose.

Does Nigeria owe this generation an apology? Oh yes!

We handed many of them a broken ladder.

We promised that education guaranteed opportunity.

Too often, it guaranteed frustration.

We told them hard work pays.

Then we rewarded shortcuts, nepotism.

We celebrated merit in speeches and connections in practice.

That hypocrisy has been very expensive.

Still, surrender is not an option.

The answer is not to despise education because the system has disappointed many educated people.

The answer is to repair the system until education once again opens doors instead of merely decorating walls with certificates.

We need a Nigeria where professors and professionals can live with dignity, not where researchers are looked at with pity.

Our teachers must command respect not looked down on.

Our skilled artisans must be encouraged.

Our children must be taught that being smart is not an embarrassment but an asset.

And yes, where content creators continue to thrive — not because they celebrate ignorance, but because they celebrate wit, creativity and imagination.

There is a world of difference between making people laugh and making ignorance aspirational.

One enriches culture.

The other impoverishes it.

The Olodo Uprising should therefore be more than a social media phrase.

It should be a mirror reflecting the uncomfortable truth that our children are becoming exactly what we have rewarded them to become.

If we don’t like the reflection, smashing the mirror won’t help.

We must change what stands before it. Our elders and leaders, our parents and life coaches must change our ways and messaging.

Because the child watching today is tomorrow’s doctor, governor, engineer, teacher, entrepreneur, journalist and president.

The applause we give today will determine the ambitions they pursue tomorrow.

If Nigeria continues to make its brightest children feel foolish for studying, while making ignorance look glamorous, then we should not act surprised when excellence quietly packs its bags, boards the next flight out, or simply gives up.

We must renegotiate Nigeria’s future, not just in conference halls but in classrooms, in living rooms, on our timelines.

We must take second looks at the people we celebrate, who we honour and the values we choose to reward.

The real uprising is not of the “olodo.” The real uprising is of a culture that has begun to confuse visibility with value, popularity with purpose, and wealth with wisdom.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

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By Kachi Okezie, Esq.

By way of a backdrop, on 29 December, 2023, South Africa’s President, Cyril Ramaphosa, gleefully announced to the whole world that South Africa had filed a case at the International Court of Justice (ICJ), praying it to rule that Israel breached the Genocide Convention by committing or failing to prevent genocide in Gaza. Other reliefs sought by South Africa include an immediate halt to violations, the return of displaced Palestinians as well as an order of reparations and compensation for Gaza’s destruction.

That is about Israel, the defendant in the said case. Now, to the plaintiff, South Africa. For generations, South Africa occupied a unique place in Africa’s collective imagination. It was the nation that emerged from apartheid through reconciliation rather than civil war. It became the continent’s most industrialised economy, one of its strongest diplomatic voices, and a leading advocate for international human rights. South African leaders regularly invoked the ideals of Ubuntu, Pan-African solidarity, and constitutional democracy as pillars of both domestic governance and foreign policy. Today, those ideals are facing one of their greatest tests.

The events surrounding the June 30, 2026 deadline imposed by anti-immigrant vigilante movements, like March and March, represent, in my view, far more than another episode of xenophobic violence. They expose a deeper crisis of governance, political accountability, and continental leadership. Whether measured by the displacement of thousands of African migrants, the deterioration of South Africa’s diplomatic standing, or the apparent inability of regional institutions to respond decisively, the consequences extend well beyond South Africa’s borders.

This is not simply a story about immigration. It is a story about governance. It is a story about political choices. And ultimately, it is a story about what happens when governments fail to solve structural domestic problems and vulnerable outsiders become the easiest targets for public anger.

South Africa’s immigration debate has never existed in isolation. For years, frustration over unemployment, economic stagnation, deteriorating public services, municipal collapse, electricity shortages, corruption scandals, and widening inequality has shaped the country’s political landscape. Millions of South Africans continue to struggle with poverty despite decades of democratic rule, while many municipalities battle declining infrastructure, unreliable water supplies, and failing public administration. These challenges are real. They deserve serious policy responses.

Yet frustration born from governance failures can easily be redirected toward those with the least political protection. Throughout history, governments and political actors around the world have discovered that blaming outsiders often proves easier than confronting complex domestic failures. Immigrants become symbols rather than individuals. They become convenient explanations for unemployment, crime, housing shortages, or pressure on public services.

In my assessment, South Africa has increasingly drifted toward this dangerous pattern. Groups such as Operation Dudula have gained prominence by framing migrants as the central obstacle preventing South Africans from achieving economic security. Their campaigns have focused on identifying, exposing, and pressuring foreign nationals in workplaces, businesses, healthcare facilities, and communities.

Supporters present these actions as community activism aimed at enforcing immigration laws. Critics argue that they amount to organised intimidation and collective punishment. Regardless of which description one adopts, the consequences for many migrants have been profound. Families have reportedly fled communities they had lived in for years. Businesses painstakingly built over decades have allegedly been abandoned. Workers have found themselves targeted not because of individual conduct but because of nationality or language.

The greatest tragedy is that many of those affected are themselves Africans who arrived in South Africa fleeing economic hardship or political instability elsewhere on the continent. Zimbabweans escaping economic collapse, Nigerians seeking commercial opportunity, Malawians searching for employment, and Ghanaians building businesses all became part of South Africa’s economic fabric. Many invested their savings. Many paid taxes. Many employed South Africans. Yet during moments of heightened xenophobic tension, these distinctions often disappear. Instead, entire communities become defined by stereotypes.

One of the most troubling aspects of this crisis is the apparent contradiction between political rhetoric and political outcomes. President Cyril Ramaphosa has, on several occasions, publicly appealed for calm and urged citizens not to scapegoat migrants. Such statements acknowledge an important principle: collective blame is incompatible with constitutional democracy.

However, critics contend that words alone cannot substitute for decisive action. A government is ultimately judged not merely by speeches but by whether it protects those living within its borders. If illegal roadblocks emerge, if vigilante groups assume functions normally reserved for law enforcement, or if intimidation becomes normalised, then critics argue, and it stands to reason, that the state’s responsibility extends beyond condemnation. It includes prevention, investigation, prosecution, and the restoration of public confidence.

Leadership requires more than expressing concern after violence has occurred. It requires ensuring that violence does not become politically profitable. This is where many observers believe the South African government has fallen short.

Another concern relates to public messaging. During periods of heightened tension, discussions about undocumented migration have frequently merged with broader narratives linking foreign nationals to crime, drug trafficking, and social disorder. Certainly, criminal activity should be investigated and prosecuted regardless of nationality. Every sovereign state has the right to regulate immigration and enforce its laws. Yet problems arise when criminality becomes associated with entire national communities. Collective suspicion can quickly become collective punishment.

When political discourse repeatedly emphasises crime while simultaneously discussing migrants as a broad category, ordinary citizens may begin treating every foreign accent or passport as evidence of criminality. Such narratives risk legitimising prejudice even if that is not their stated intention. This dynamic deserves careful scrutiny because language matters. Political rhetoric shapes public perception. Public perception influences public behaviour. And public behaviour, when inflamed by fear and economic anxiety, can escalate into violence.

South Africa’s international reputation also hangs in the balance. For decades, Pretoria has positioned itself as an advocate of international justice, human rights, and constitutional governance. It has often spoken forcefully on humanitarian crises elsewhere and sought leadership roles in continental diplomacy.

That moral authority depends upon consistency. Critics argue that any perception of inadequate protection for migrants weakens South Africa’s credibility when speaking on international human rights issues. Whether fair or not, foreign governments inevitably compare external advocacy with domestic practice. A nation cannot easily champion human dignity abroad while facing accusations of failing to protect vulnerable communities at home.

The crisis also raises uncomfortable questions for the African Union. Pan-Africanism was founded on the principle that Africans share common aspirations and responsibilities beyond colonial borders. The free movement of people, economic integration, and continental solidarity remain central aspirations of the African Union’s long-term vision. Yet when African migrants become targets within another African country, those ideals appear increasingly fragile.

Many critics believe continental institutions have reacted too slowly to repeated outbreaks of xenophobic violence over the years. Whether because of diplomatic caution, political sensitivities, or institutional weakness, regional mechanisms have often appeared reactive rather than preventive. If Pan-Africanism is to remain more than political rhetoric, regional institutions may need stronger mechanisms capable of addressing cross-border humanitarian crises before they escalate.

The legal dimension of this crisis may become increasingly significant. Affected governments could seek accountability through available regional and international legal mechanisms where appropriate. Depending on the circumstances and available evidence, disputes concerning property rights, compensation, protection of foreign nationals, and alleged human rights violations could become matters for regional human rights institutions or other judicial forums.

Legal proceedings, however, are only one part of a broader diplomatic challenge. Governments whose citizens have been displaced face difficult questions. How should they assist returnees? How should abandoned investments be documented? How should diplomatic relations with South Africa evolve? Should they prioritise dialogue? Should they seek mediation? Should they pursue legal remedies? Or should economic pressure become part of their response?

Reasonable observers may disagree. Some advocate maintaining constructive engagement, arguing that isolation rarely produces lasting reform. Others believe stronger diplomatic and economic pressure is necessary to encourage meaningful action and demonstrate that attacks on foreign nationals carry regional consequences.

Whatever approach is chosen, one principle should remain clear: protecting human life and dignity must take precedence over political convenience.

Beyond governments lies another constituency with influence—the private sector. South African companies operate across much of Africa, contributing investment, employment, banking, telecommunications, retail, and logistics services. These businesses have benefited enormously from continental markets. Corporate leaders therefore have an opportunity to demonstrate that commerce can reinforce social responsibility. Clear public opposition to xenophobia, support for affected employees regardless of nationality, and investment in community cohesion could strengthen confidence both within South Africa and across the continent.

Civil society likewise has an indispensable role. Religious organisations, universities, trade unions, business associations, journalists, artists, and community leaders possess enormous influence over public discourse. History repeatedly shows that prejudice grows strongest when ordinary people remain silent. Countering xenophobia requires more than policing. It requires rebuilding trust. It requires challenging misinformation. It requires reminding societies that economic frustration does not justify discrimination.

Perhaps the deepest irony of this crisis lies in South Africa’s own history. Across the African continent, many nations provided sanctuary, financial assistance, military training, scholarships, diplomatic recognition, and political support to South Africans resisting apartheid. Countless African governments regarded the struggle against apartheid as their own.

That legacy created a powerful expectation of continental solidarity. When migrants from those same countries later sought opportunity in democratic South Africa, many believed they were entering not merely another labour market but a country whose liberation had been built upon African cooperation. Whether that expectation has been fulfilled remains a matter of intense debate.

South Africa today stands at an important crossroads. It can confront xenophobia decisively, strengthen institutions, prosecute those responsible for violence, reaffirm constitutional protections for everyone within its borders, and rebuild confidence among its African neighbours. Or it can allow cycles of resentment, vigilantism, and political expediency to deepen, eroding decades of diplomatic goodwill and weakening the very ideals that once distinguished the country’s democratic transition.

Ultimately, this crisis is larger than one administration, one political party, or one immigration debate. It asks whether Africa’s commitment to Pan-African solidarity extends beyond speeches and summit declarations. It asks whether constitutional democracies can protect vulnerable minorities even when doing so is politically difficult. And it asks whether governments confronting economic hardship will choose reform or scapegoating.

History will judge that choice. So will future generations of Africans whose faith in continental unity depends not on inspiring rhetoric, but on the willingness of nations to protect one another when it matters most. And a petition to the ICJ, this time against South Africa, for committing of failing to prevent xenophobia attacks on Africans, should not be ruled out.

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