By Abdul Mahmud
The killing of two Nigerians in South Africa is not an isolated outrage that can be explained away with the tired language of criminality or spontaneous mob action; it is part of a disturbing pattern of violence that has taken root in a country whose freedom was once nourished by the sacrifices of others, and it forces us to confront a painful truth about how quickly nations can forget the solidarities that shaped their liberation, and how easily that forgetting can harden into hostility against those who once stood as comrades in struggle.
These recurring attacks are a stain on a shared history that ought to bind Nigeria and South Africa in enduring fraternity, because there was a time when the distance between Lagos and Johannesburg was bridged by a common purpose, when the oppression of black South Africans was felt in the streets of Nigerian cities and campuses as a moral emergency, and when ordinary Nigerians, far removed from apartheid brutality, still understood that their humanity was tied to the fate of those who lived under its crushing weight.
Nigeria did not stand aside in those years of darkness; through the Southern Africa Relief Fund, citizens contributed what they could, not from abundance but from the conviction that they were part of something larger than themselves, and part of the continental struggles that demanded sacrifices from all who believed in justice.
Beyond the contributions of individuals, Nigeria as a nation provided financial, diplomatic, and moral leadership to the African National Congress and other liberation movements when it mattered most, and these were not symbolic gestures but concrete commitments that came with real costs, because supporting the fight against apartheid meant diverting resources, taking global geopolitical risks, and standing firmly on the side of justice at a time when such a stance was neither convenient nor universally embraced. Nigeria bore those costs willingly, driven by the belief that the freedom of South Africa was inseparable from the dignity of the black race, and that history now stands as a testament to a generation that understood solidarity not as a slogan but as a duty.
My own involvement in that struggle was shaped during my years at the University of Jos, where, as General Secretary of the Youth Solidarity for Southern Africa Nigeria, YUSSAN, I helped to organise, mobilise, and educate students about the realities of apartheid and the imperative of resistance. YUSSAN was a front organisation of the Patriotic Youth Movement of Nigeria (PYMN), the left-leaning core of the National Association of Nigerian Students (NANS), that engaged in ideological struggles aimed at advancing the interests of Nigerians and the broader black race, and through it we raised funds, held events, and kept alive the memory of atrocities such as the Sharpeville and Soweto massacres, ensuring that they were not reduced to distant historical footnotes but remained urgent reminders of the brutality we were determined to oppose.
One memory remains vivid, as though it belongs not to the past but to an unbroken present, and that is the vigil we organised on the eve of the release of Nelson Mandela in 1990, when we gathered, filled with anticipation, listening to the live coverage from BBC Africa, counting the hours with a mixture of anxiety and hope, until the moment came when the prison doors were opened and Mandela stepped into freedom, his walk becoming an enduring symbol of resilience and the triumph of a just cause. Later that day, the streets of Jos erupted in celebration, as students poured into them with joy, aware that history had shifted in a way that affirmed the sacrifices made across the continent, including those made by Nigerians who had never set foot in South Africa but had nonetheless invested their hearts and resources in its liberation.
It is against this background that the present reality becomes almost unbearable to contemplate, because what we see today with murderous marches of xenophobists who are behind Operation Dudula is not merely a breakdown of law and order but a betrayal of memory, a repudiation of the very solidarities that made South Africa. The rise of xenophobic movements and campaigns such as Operation Dudula represents a particularly troubling manifestation of this trend, as they actively promote hostility against foreigners, including Nigerians, and create an environment in which violence is not only possible but, in some circles, implicitly justified.
Those who drive and sustain such movements must be confronted with clarity and firmness, because their actions do not merely threaten the lives of individuals but undermine the moral fabric of a race that once stood as a beacon of resistance against injustice, and they distort legitimate grievances into a politics of blame that directs anger toward the vulnerable rather than toward the structural failures that produce inequality and hardship. Economic challenges, unemployment, and social discontent are real issues that deserve serious attention, but they cannot and must not be addressed through the dehumanisation and persecution of fellow Africans who are themselves seeking opportunities for survival and dignity.
The South African state also bears responsibility, because the persistence of these attacks suggests a failure to adequately protect those within its borders and to decisively challenge the narratives that fuel xenophobia, and while official condemnations are necessary, they are not sufficient if they are not matched by consistent action that reassures both citizens and foreigners that the rule of law will be upheld and that violence will not be tolerated under any guise. Silence, or selective enforcement, only emboldens those who believe they can act with impunity, and it sends a dangerous signal that some lives are less worthy of protection than others.
For Nigerians, these killings strike a deep and painful chord, because they force a reckoning with a history that was built on generosity and solidarity, and they raise difficult questions about how that history is remembered and honoured by those who benefited from it. Memory, when it is genuine, carries obligations, it demands recognition, gratitude, and a commitment to uphold the values that it represents, and when it is ignored or distorted, it becomes a source of resentment and disillusionment, as those who once gave freely begin to feel that their sacrifices have been dismissed or forgotten. The deaths of these two Nigerians must therefore be seen not only as individual tragedies but as a call to restore a sense of shared African identity that transcends borders and resists the temptation to retreat into insular and exclusionary attitudes, because the challenges facing our continent cannot be addressed through division but require a renewal of the spirit of cooperation that once defined our collective struggles.
South Africa’s freedom was achieved through a network of support that extended far beyond its borders, and preserving that legacy demands a conscious effort to reject xenophobia in all its forms and to reaffirm the principle that Africans, regardless of nationality, share a common destiny.
When Nigerians stood with South Africa during apartheid, they did so with the belief that they were investing in a future built on justice, dignity, and mutual respect, and the violence we witness today stands in stark contrast to that vision, serving as a painful reminder of how far we have drifted from those ideals, and how urgent the task has become to reclaim them before the bonds that once united us are irreparably broken.
This isn’t how to treat a big brother.