Analysis
Understanding South Africa’s Xenophobic Violence, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
Understanding South Africa’s Xenophobic Violence, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
There is a tendency to explain xenophobic violence in South Africa as a spontaneous eruption of anger by frustrated citizens. That explanation is convenient, but it is incomplete. What has unfolded repeatedly across Johannesburg, Durban, Pretoria and other urban centres over the past three decades is not random. It is patterned, predictable, and rooted in deeper structural contradictions within South Africa’s post-apartheid society. To understand it fully is to confront an uncomfortable reality: xenophobia in South Africa is as much about internal failure as it is about external scapegoating, and as much about forgotten history.
Since the formal end of apartheid in 1994, South Africa has occupied a paradoxical position on the continent. It is Africa’s most industrialised economy, yet one of its most unequal societies. It is a democracy born out of global solidarity, yet one that has struggled to extend that same spirit to fellow Africans. These contradictions form the backdrop against which xenophobic violence has evolved.
The early years of democracy created powerful expectations. South Africa was imagined as a land of opportunity, and for many Africans, it became exactly that. Migrants from Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Somalia, Ethiopia and beyond moved into the country in search of economic advancement and stability. Nigerians, in particular, established themselves in commerce, education, entertainment and professional services, becoming one of the most visible African communities in the country.
South Africa’s structural inequality remained largely intact after apartheid. By the late 1990s, unemployment had become entrenched, especially among the youth. Informal settlements expanded, service delivery lagged, and frustration grew. In this environment, the presence of foreign nationals—many of whom operated small businesses in townships and informal markets—became a focal point for resentment.
The first major signal that this resentment could turn violent came in May 2008. What began as localised misunderstandings in Alexandra township near Johannesburg quickly escalated into nationwide attacks. Over the course of weeks, violence spread to multiple provinces, leaving at least 60 people dead and displacing tens of thousands. Shops owned by foreign nationals were looted, homes were destroyed, and entire communities were forced to flee. The victims were overwhelmingly African migrants, reflecting that the violence was not about race in the traditional South African sense, but about nationality and belonging.
The 2008 attacks were widely condemned, both domestically and internationally. The government responded with security deployments and humanitarian assistance, but the underlying causes were not resolved. Instead, the violence established a template that would be repeated in subsequent years.
In April 2015, xenophobic attacks erupted again, beginning in Durban and spreading to other parts of KwaZulu-Natal and Gauteng provinces. At least seven people were killed, and thousands were displaced. The violence followed controversial remarks attributed to Zulu King Goodwill Zwelithini, who was reported to have suggested that foreigners should leave South Africa. Regardless of the intended meaning, the statement resonated with existing anti-immigrant sentiment and contributed to the escalation.
By 2017, the pattern had become more targeted. Nigerian-owned businesses in Pretoria and Johannesburg were attacked, with shops looted and properties destroyed. Nigerians, already burdened by negative stereotypes linking them to crime, found themselves increasingly singled out. These stereotypes, often amplified by social media and sensational reporting, created a climate in which collective punishment was normalised.
The 2019 wave of violence marked another turning point. Attacks in Johannesburg and surrounding areas led to deaths, widespread looting, and renewed diplomatic rifts. The scale and intensity of the violence prompted strong reactions from affected countries, particularly Nigeria. The Nigerian government recalled its High Commissioner from Pretoria and boycotted the World Economic Forum on Africa in Cape Town. There were also retaliatory incidents in Nigeria, where South African-owned businesses were targeted by angry youths.
Behind these episodic eruptions lies a consistent pattern of human and economic loss. Over the years, hundreds of people have been killed, thousands displaced, and billions of naira worth of property destroyed. Nigerian victims alone have suffered disproportionately, with over a hundred deaths recorded within a short span between 2016 and 2018. These figures are not merely statistics; they represent lives disrupted, families broken, and dreams deferred.
Yet, to focus solely on the violence without examining its historical context is to miss a critical dimension of the story. South Africa’s liberation from apartheid was not achieved in isolation. It was the product of sustained international and continental support, in which Nigeria played a leading role.
From the 1960s through the early 1990s, Nigeria positioned itself as a central actor in the anti-apartheid struggle. It provided financial assistance to liberation movements such as the African National Congress, hosted South African exiles, and funded scholarships for thousands of students who could not pursue education at home due to apartheid restrictions. These efforts were not incidental; they were embedded in Nigeria’s foreign policy, which prioritised African liberation and unity.
The country’s commitment extended beyond financial support. In 1976, following the Soweto uprising, Nigeria intensified its diplomatic campaign against apartheid. By 1979, it had nationalised British Petroleum assets in protest against Western engagement with the apartheid regime. Nigeria also played a significant role at the United Nations, advocating for sanctions and contributing to the global isolation that eventually forced the apartheid government to negotiate.
These actions came at a cost. Nigeria sacrificed economic opportunities and diplomatic relationships in pursuit of a broader African cause. The expectation was not repayment, but recognition of a shared destiny. When Nelson Mandela was released in 1990 and later elected president in 1994, that expectation seemed justified.
However, the post-apartheid reality has complicated that narrative. Xenophobic violence has raised difficult questions about the durability of African solidarity. It has exposed the limits of historical memory in shaping contemporary behaviour.
To understand why xenophobia persists, one must examine the structural drivers within South Africa. Economic inequality remains central. The country consistently ranks among the most unequal in the world, with a Gini coefficient that reflects deep disparities in wealth and opportunity. Unemployment rates, particularly among young people, remain high. In such conditions, competition for resources becomes intense, and migrants are often perceived as competitors.
This perception is reinforced by political rhetoric. In times of economic stress, blaming foreigners can be politically expedient. It shifts attention away from governance failures and redirects public anger toward a vulnerable group. Over time, this narrative becomes entrenched, shaping public attitudes and legitimising hostility.
Law enforcement challenges further exacerbate the problem. While the South African government has condemned xenophobic violence and, at times, deployed security forces to restore order, the prosecution of perpetrators has been inconsistent. The result is a cycle of violence followed by temporary calm, without meaningful prosecution. This pattern creates a sense of impunity, encouraging future attacks.
There is also a psychological dimension that cannot be ignored. The transition from apartheid to democracy did not automatically resolve issues of identity and belonging. During apartheid, the struggle against a common oppressor created a sense of unity among black South Africans. In the post-apartheid era, that unifying force has dissipated, leaving space for new forms of exclusion.
Foreign Africans, despite their shared history, have been positioned as outsiders. The term “makwerekwere,” often used derogatorily to describe African migrants, reflects this sense of otherness. It is a linguistic marker of exclusion, one that reinforces the idea that not all Africans are equal within the African space.
For Nigerians, the challenge is compounded by perception. While many Nigerians in South Africa are law-abiding entrepreneurs, professionals and students, a minority involved in criminal activities has shaped public perception disproportionately. This perception has been amplified by media narratives and online discourse, creating a stereotype that is both persistent and damaging.
The result is a community that is simultaneously visible and vulnerable. Nigerian businesses are often among the first targets during xenophobic attacks, and Nigerian nationals frequently bear the brunt of violence. This dynamic reiterates the intersection of economic competition, social perception, and political narrative.
The implications extend beyond South Africa. Xenophobic violence has strained diplomatic relations, particularly between Nigeria and South Africa. These two countries are not just regional powers; they are central to the continent’s economic and political future. This issue between them have ripple effects across Africa, affecting trade, investment, and regional cooperation.
At a broader level, xenophobia challenges the very idea of Pan-Africanism. It raises fundamental questions about the feasibility of continental integration in the face of internal divisions. Initiatives such as the African Continental Free Trade Area depend on the free movement of people, goods, and services. Xenophobic violence undermines these goals, creating barriers where there should be bridges.
Addressing this crisis requires more than condemnation. It demands a comprehensive approach that tackles both immediate triggers and underlying causes. Economic reforms must prioritise inclusion, ensuring that growth translates into opportunities for all residents. Political leaders must exercise restraint in their rhetoric, avoiding narratives that scapegoat migrants.
Law enforcement must be strengthened to ensure proper prosecution. Without consequences, violence will continue to recur. At the same time, there is a need for sustained public education—an effort to reconnect South Africans with their own history and the role that other African nations played in their liberation.
For Nigeria, the response must be measured but firm. Protecting its citizens abroad is a fundamental responsibility, but so is maintaining diplomatic engagement. The relationship between Nigeria and South Africa remains too important to be defined by periodic crises.
In the final analysis, understanding South Africa’s xenophobic violence requires a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. It is not enough to attribute the problem to ignorance or anger. It is a product of structural inequality, political dynamics, and historical amnesia.
The tragedy lies not only in the violence itself, but in what it represents: a breakdown of the solidarity that once defined Africa’s struggle for freedom. If that solidarity is to be restored, it will require more than memory. It will require action, leadership, and a renewed commitment to the idea that Africa’s future is shared.
Until then, xenophobic violence will remain a recurring wound—one that continues to undermine both South Africa’s promise and Africa’s collective aspiration.
Analysis
Canada’s Policy Shift and the Changing Reality for Nigerian Migrants, By Boniface Ihiasota
Canada’s Policy Shift and the Changing Reality for Nigerian Migrants, By Boniface Ihiasota
Canada’s evolving immigration and asylum policies in 2026 mark a turning point that is being closely watched across migrant communities, including Nigerians who have, over the past decade, become one of the fastest-growing African diasporas in the country. What is unfolding is not a closure of doors, but a recalibration—one that prioritises economic utility, system efficiency, and stricter compliance over the expansive openness that once defined Canada’s migration model.
The most notable shift is in the asylum system. In March 2026, the Canadian government enacted new reforms through legislation widely reported as Bill C-12, aimed at tightening refugee intake procedures and reducing a backlog that has stretched the system for years. Canada’s asylum inventory had exceeded 260,000 pending claims by late 2025, according to data from the Immigration and Refugee Board, creating long waiting times that sometimes ran into several years. The new law introduces faster screening mechanisms, allowing authorities to determine early on whether claims are eligible for full hearings.
Early outcomes have already begun to reflect the impact. Tens of thousands of claims have been flagged for additional scrutiny, with some applicants required to provide further documentation within strict timelines or face removal proceedings. For Nigerians, who continue to feature prominently among asylum applicants, this introduces a new level of uncertainty. While Canada does not target specific nationalities, applicants from countries with complex migration patterns often face deeper scrutiny in credibility assessments.
Yet, the tightening of asylum pathways does not exist in isolation. It is part of a broader restructuring of Canada’s immigration system, which has been under pressure from housing shortages, healthcare capacity constraints, and public debate over population growth. In response, the federal government adjusted its Immigration Levels Plan for 2026–2028, maintaining a target of approximately 500,000 permanent residents annually but reducing the intake of temporary residents, including international students and some categories of foreign workers.
For Nigerians, this dual-track approach—restrictive in some areas and targeted in others—presents a mixed picture. On the one hand, study pathways have become more competitive. Nigeria has consistently ranked among the top 10 source countries for international students in Canada, with over 16,000 Nigerian students holding study permits as of 2024, according to Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada. However, new policies introduced in early 2026 cap the number of study permits issued nationwide and tighten post-study work conditions, particularly for students enrolled in short-term or preparatory programmes.
On the other hand, economic migration pathways are being sharpened rather than reduced. Canada’s flagship Express Entry system has undergone targeted reforms designed to align immigration more closely with labour market shortages. In February 2026, Immigration Minister Lena Metlege Diab announced category-based selection draws focusing on healthcare, science and technology, transportation, and skilled trades. These sectors have faced persistent labour gaps, especially as Canada’s population ages.
For Nigerian professionals, this presents a clear opportunity—provided they meet the heightened requirements. The minimum threshold for relevant work experience in many categories has effectively increased, with greater emphasis placed on recent, verifiable employment within the last three years. Language proficiency benchmarks and credential verification processes have also become more stringent, reflecting a broader effort to ensure that newcomers integrate quickly into the workforce.
At the same time, enforcement has become more visible. The Canada Border Services Agency reported that hundreds of Nigerians were deported in 2025 for overstaying visas or failing to comply with immigration rules, with additional cases pending. While deportations remain a small fraction of overall migrant numbers, they signal a tougher posture toward non-compliance, reinforcing the message that entry into Canada now comes with stricter accountability.
Despite these changes, Canada’s immigration system retains key features that distinguish it globally. Unlike some Western countries, Canada does not impose nationality-based caps or bans. Instead, its system remains points-based and merit-driven, allowing applicants from countries like Nigeria to compete on relatively equal footing. Nigerians, in fact, continue to perform strongly in economic migration streams due to high levels of English proficiency and a growing pool of university-educated professionals.
From a diaspora perspective, the significance of these reforms lies in their long-term implications. Canada is moving away from a volume-driven immigration model toward one that is more selective and sustainability-focused. The emphasis is shifting from how many migrants the country can admit to how effectively those migrants can contribute to economic growth and social stability.
For prospective Nigerian migrants, the message is becoming increasingly clear. The era of broad accessibility—where multiple pathways could be explored with relative ease—is giving way to a more disciplined system that rewards preparation, skill alignment, and legal compliance. Success now depends less on aspiration alone and more on strategy: choosing the right immigration stream, meeting precise eligibility criteria, and presenting verifiable documentation.
Still, the Canadian dream remains very much alive. What has changed is the pathway to achieving it. It is no longer defined by openness alone, but by competitiveness. For those willing to adapt to these new realities, Canada continues to offer opportunities—not as a guaranteed destination, but as a carefully managed one.
Analysis
Atiku, Why Again? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
Atiku, Why Again? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
In Nigerian politics, ambition is not unusual. Neither is persistence. But when a politician has been on the presidential ballot for several years without success, it is fair to ask a simple question: what is the plan this time that was not there before?
That question has come up again after the recent television interview by Atiku Abubakar, where he made it clear that he intends to run for president in 2027. If he does, it will be his seventh attempt.
The interview, aired on ARISE TV on Wednesday, April 15th, was meant to position him as a leading figure in the opposition ahead of the next election. Instead, it has brought back old doubts about his long political journey, his repeated attempts, and whether anything has really changed.
Atiku did not present his ambition as something he was still considering. He spoke as someone already committed to the race. He also described the 2027 election as his “last outing,” suggesting that this would be his final attempt.
At the same time, he tried to balance two positions. He said he was open to working with others in a coalition under the African Democratic Congress (ADC). But he also made it clear that he would contest for the ticket and would not step aside for anyone, including Peter Obi, Kwankwaso and others.
That position is important. It shows that while he talks about unity, he is not ready to sacrifice his own ambition for it. This has been a consistent feature of his politics over the years.
Atiku has been in Nigerian politics for over three decades. He served as vice president under Olusegun Obasanjo from 1999 to 2007. That position gave him national visibility and influence. However, his main political identity today is built around his repeated attempts to become president. He first contested in the early 1990s. Since then, he has run in 2007, 2011, 2015, 2019, and 2023. He lost all.
This history matters. It is not just about numbers. It shapes how voters see him. Many Nigerians now associate him more with contesting elections than with holding office. So the issue is not just that he is running again. The real issue is why he believes this time will be different.
One major part of Atiku’s strategy over the years has been changing political platforms. He started with the Social Democratic Party (SDP) in the early 1990s, moved to the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP), later joined the Action Congress (AC), returned to the PDP, then moved to the All Progressives Congress (APC), and went back again to the PDP before aligning with the ADC for now.
This kind of movement is often explained as political strategy. Nigerian parties are not strongly ideological, so politicians move when they feel their chances are better elsewhere. But frequent defection also raises questions. It becomes difficult to clearly define what a politician stands for beyond personal ambition. In Atiku’s case, every move has been tied to his presidential ambition. When one platform does not work, he looks for another. That approach may be practical, but it also creates doubts about consistency.
The ADC is now being presented as a platform for a broad opposition coalition ahead of 2027. For Atiku, it is another opportunity to reposition himself and work with other opposition figures. The idea of a coalition is simple: bring together different political forces to challenge the ruling party, currently led by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu.
However, coalitions are not easy to manage. They involve people with different ambitions, different support bases, and different strategies. In this case, figures like Peter Obi, Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso, Rauf Aregbesola, David Mark, Rotimi Amaechi et al also have strong followings.
Atiku’s decision to insist on contesting may create crisis within the coalition. While his experience and national network are advantages, his ambition could also divide the group. So his presence in the ADC is both helpful and complicated.
Although Atiku said in the interview that 2027 would be his final attempt. By then, he will be close to 80 years old, so the claim is understandable. But Nigerian politics has seen similar claims before. Politicians often say an election will be their last, only to return again later. This is why many people are not fully convinced.
More importantly, the idea of a “last attempt” raises a bigger issue. Should leadership at this stage focus on long-term national direction or on completing a personal political journey? This is where age and generational change come into the conversation. Nigeria has a very young population. Many voters are looking for new faces and new ideas. Atiku represents experience, but he also represents an older political generation.
Atiku’s biggest strengths are clear. He has experience, name recognition, and a strong political network across the country. He understands the system and knows how to run national campaigns. But these strengths come with weaknesses. His long history also connects him to past political practices that many Nigerians now question. Some voters see him as part of the old system rather than a candidate for change.
In his interview, he spoke about reforms, including constitutional changes and power rotation. However, critics point out that his positions on some of these issues have changed over time, depending on political circumstances. This gap between what he says now and what he has done before is part of the trust problem he faces.
From a political standpoint, Atiku’s decision to run again is not without logic. He is likely counting on strong support from the northern region and hoping that dissatisfaction with the current administration will work in his favour.
Economic challenges and public frustration could create an opportunity for the opposition. Atiku is trying to position himself as the candidate who can benefit from that situation. However, the situation is not simple. The opposition is not united. There are other strong candidates. Voters are also becoming less predictable.
Winning an election now requires more than regional strength. It requires broad national appeal and the ability to connect with younger voters. This is where Atiku faces his biggest test.
At a broader level, Atiku’s repeated candidacies reflect a pattern in Nigerian politics. The same group of politicians continues to dominate the system, moving between parties and positions. This makes it harder for new leaders to emerge. It also creates a sense that elections are contests between familiar faces rather than opportunities for real change. Atiku is not the only example of this, but he is one of the most visible.
If Atiku wants to convince Nigerians this time, he needs to do more than declare his intention to run. He needs to explain clearly why he has not succeeded before and what will be different now.
He also needs to show that his campaign is not just another attempt, but a new approach. That includes how he plans to govern, how he will address current challenges, and how he will work with other political actors. Without this, his candidacy risks being seen as a repeat of previous efforts.
Atiku Abubakar has the right to contest for president. That is not in question. The real issue is whether his continued participation adds value to the political process or simply repeats what Nigerians have already seen.
His recent interview has reopened an important debate. It is not just about him. It is about the direction of Nigerian politics, the need for new leadership, and the balance between experience and change.
As 2027 approaches, voters will have to decide. Do they want to give Atiku another chance, or do they want something different?
Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com
Analysis
Where Lies the Integrity of INEC Chairman? By Boniface Ihiasota
Where Lies the Integrity of INEC Chairman? By Boniface Ihiasota
From the vantage point of the diaspora, where institutions are often judged less by rhetoric and more by credibility, Nigeria’s electoral process continues to raise uneasy questions. At the centre of this scrutiny is the Independent National Electoral Commission, INEC and its current chairman, Professor Joash Amupitan, whose tenure, though relatively new, is already entangled in controversy that strikes at the very heart of electoral neutrality.
Amupitan assumed office in October 2025, following his nomination by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu and confirmation by the Senate on October 16, 2025. His appointment was framed as a technocratic choice—an academic, a Senior Advocate of Nigeria, and, in the words of the presidency, an “apolitical” figure expected to restore confidence in the electoral system. Yet, barely six months into his tenure, that expectation is being tested by a controversy rooted not in policy decisions, but in digital footprints.
The storm centres on a series of alleged past activities on the social media platform X (formerly Twitter), linked to an account bearing his name. The most cited instance dates back to March 18, 2023, during the Lagos State gubernatorial elections. On that day, Dayo Israel, a prominent figure in the ruling All Progressives Congress, posted about electoral success in a previously opposition-leaning area. A reply attributed to an account carrying Amupitan’s name reportedly read: “Victory is sure.”
That single phrase—brief, seemingly innocuous—has since taken on outsized significance. For critics, it is not just about the words themselves, but what they imply: a possible alignment, however subtle, with a political party that the electoral umpire is expected to regulate with strict neutrality. The African Democratic Congress (ADC), through its spokesperson Bolaji Abdullahi, has described the resurfaced interaction as a “grave affront” to the integrity of the electoral system and has gone as far as demanding Amupitan’s resignation.
The controversy deepened in April 2026 when conflicting narratives emerged. On one hand, some digital analyses and commentaries claimed that the account in question bore traces consistent with Amupitan’s online identity prior to his appointment. On the other, INEC issued a categorical denial. In a statement released on April 10, 2026, the commission insisted that the chairman “does not own or operate any personal account on X” and described the allegations as “entirely baseless” and a “fabrication.” The commission further alleged that cybercriminals had been impersonating the chairman and warned that those responsible would face prosecution under the Cybercrimes Act.
This duality—accusation and denial—captures the essence of the current dilemma. In the absence of definitive proof, the debate has shifted from fact to perception. And in matters of electoral integrity, perception is often as consequential as reality.
From a diaspora perspective, this is where the concern becomes most pronounced. Electoral bodies are not judged solely by their legal correctness, but by the confidence they inspire. In countries where institutions are deeply trusted, even minor controversies are addressed swiftly and transparently to prevent erosion of credibility. In Nigeria, however, where trust in electoral processes has historically been fragile, such controversies carry amplified consequences.
It is important to acknowledge that no conclusive evidence has established that Amupitan personally operated the controversial X account. The timeline itself complicates the narrative. The alleged posts date back to 2023, two years before his appointment as INEC chairman. At that time, he was a law professor, not a public electoral official. The question, therefore, is not simply whether the account existed, but whether past expressions—if indeed they were his—should disqualify him from holding an office that demands absolute neutrality.
Yet, public office has its own moral burden. The chairman of INEC is not just an administrator; he is the custodian of democratic legitimacy. His credibility must be beyond reproach, not only in action but in history. Even the perception of partisanship, however distant, becomes a liability.
INEC’s defence rests on a familiar but critical claim: impersonation. In an era where digital identity can be easily manipulated, the existence of fake accounts is not implausible. The commission has stated that several such accounts have been identified and reported to security agencies. But this explanation, while plausible, does not entirely settle public anxiety. It shifts the burden to verification, a process that is often slow and inconclusive in Nigeria’s digital and legal landscape.
Ultimately, the question remains unresolved: where lies the integrity of the INEC chairman? It lies, perhaps, not in the binary of guilt or innocence, but in the response to doubt. Integrity, in this context, is demonstrated through transparency, openness to scrutiny, and a willingness to subject oneself to independent verification.
For Amupitan, the challenge is immediate and defining. He must not only lead elections; he must lead trust. In a system already burdened by suspicion, he cannot afford the luxury of ambiguity. Every action, every clarification, every silence will be interpreted through the lens of credibility.
From the diaspora, the hope remains that Nigeria’s electoral institution can rise above these recurring cycles of doubt. But hope, as history has shown, is not enough. Integrity must not only exist—it must be seen, tested, and, above all, believed.
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