Once upon a time, Africa sang “Mayibuye iAfrika.” It was more than a slogan. It was a promise. Today, too often, another refrain competes for attention. “Abahambe.” Let them go. Between those two songs lies one of the saddest stories in modern Africa. The journey from solidarity to suspicion, from gratitude to grievance, from shared hope to shared disappointment… Yet songs can change. So can nations. South Africa can still rediscover yesterday’s memory, the compassion required today and the vision needed for tomorrow
THERE was a time when many Africans knew South Africa long before they ever saw it.
They knew it through songs. Long before satellite television and social media connected the continent, music brought South Africa into African homes, classrooms, churches and student hostels. It travelled on cassette tapes, vinyl records and in voices lifted in solidarity.
Many children in Lagos knew of Soweto before they knew Johannesburg. Many students in Dakar had heard of Robben Island before they knew Cape Town. Many market women in Kumasi had never met a South African, yet they prayed for Nelson Mandela.
For many of us, South Africa was not merely another African country. It was Africa’s unfinished sentence. It was the continent’s open wound. It was the place where Africa’s struggle for dignity persisted long after independence elsewhere. The soundtrack of that struggle was composed not only in South Africa but across the continent. In London we chanted “Hackney today, Soweto tomorrow”
When Sonny Okosun sang “Fire in Soweto”, Nigerians were not merely listening to music. They were engaging emotionally with another nation’s pain. When Salif Keïta sang “Folon”, when Youssou N’Dour sang “Mandela”, and when Alpha Blondy declared “Apartheid Is Nazism”, they were doing more than entertain audiences. They were helping Africans imagine a South Africa they believed belonged to all of us. Across the continent, artists became diplomats of hope. Their stages became political platforms. Their lyrics became declarations of continental solidarity.
“Mayibuye iAfrika.” Let Africa return.
The slogan was South Africa’s. The emotion was Africa’s. Few countries have ever occupied such a remarkable place in another continent’s imagination. South Africa was liberated by South Africans. But it was never liberated by South Africans alone. Its freedom was purchased chiefly through the extraordinary courage and sacrifice of its own people, yet that struggle was sustained by a remarkable coalition of solidarity stretching from Lagos to Lusaka, from Dakar to Dar es Salaam, and from Kingston to London.
For the liberation of South Africa, African governments paid diplomatic costs, and African economies accepted sanctions. African musicians composed anthems. African students marched. African workers donated. African churches prayed. South Africa became, in a profound sense, the last great African cause. Then came 1994. The miracle happened. Nelson Mandela walked free. Democracy arrived. The Rainbow Nation was born. Africa celebrated as though every African had voted. Many believed that a new chapter had begun, not merely for South Africa but for Africa. The expectations were immense.
South Africa would become Africa’s moral compass, its strongest economy, its leading university system, its diplomatic voice and its intellectual powerhouse. The nation that had taught the world about reconciliation would surely teach Africa how democracy, prosperity and justice could coexist. History, however, has an inconvenient habit. Liberation movements do not automatically become successful governments. The skills required to defeat oppression are not always the same as those required to govern freedom. Somewhere between liberation and leadership, something precious began to fade.
Today, another phrase is increasingly echoing through parts of South Africa: “Abahambe.” Let them go.
The slogan is directed at foreigners. The pain it causes reaches much further.
The tragedy of xenophobic, or should we say Afrophobic, violence is measured not only by burnt shops, broken businesses, or shattered lives, but also by broken memories. For those old enough to remember “Mayibuye iAfrika,” hearing “Abahambe” is not merely disturbing. It is heartbreaking. It sounds like one dream replacing another. The journey from solidarity to suspicion. From gratitude to grievance. From continental embrace to continental estrangement.
Yet honesty requires balance; this story has no innocent side, and lest we become guilty of what we accuse others of doing, we must be honest.
Not every immigrant honours the hospitality shown by host countries. Across the world, a small minority of migrants commit crimes, disregard local laws, exploit communities, or behave as though opportunity entitles them to arrogance. Nothing could be more mistaken. Living in another country is not merely about enjoying rights. It is about accepting responsibilities. Guests owe duties as well as hosts. Hospitality is never a licence for arrogance, and this cuts both ways.
We must be clear: immigrants who undermine the peace, security and dignity of the societies that receive them betray not only their hosts but also their fellow immigrants who work honestly, contribute positively and seek nothing more than an opportunity to build decent lives. No country should be expected to tolerate criminality simply because those responsible are foreigners.
Equally, no country should permit criminality to serve as an excuse for collective punishment. That is where governments earn their legitimacy. South Africa’s government has too often appeared absent precisely when leadership was most urgently required. Violence against foreign Africans does not erupt without warning. Neither does resentment. Responsible governments identify tensions before they become tragedies. They enforce the law without fear. They distinguish criminals from communities. They refuse to allow frustration to turn into ethnic hostility.
Leadership consists not merely in condemning violence after it happens, but in preventing the conditions that make violence politically useful. That responsibility belongs first to Pretoria. It cannot be outsourced to angry crowds. Nor should the rest of Africa escape criticism. The silence of African governments has become almost as troubling as the violence itself. Nigeria, once among the strongest supporters of the anti-apartheid struggle, now seems strangely unable to influence events in one of Africa’s most important democracies. Other governments protest briefly before returning to diplomatic routine.
The African Union issues carefully balanced statements while continental confidence quietly deteriorates. Africa has an African Union. Too often, it lacks an African voice. Perhaps the greatest disappointment is not that disagreements exist. Every continent experiences migration disputes. Europe does. North America does. Asia does. The disappointment lies elsewhere.
Africa once believed it possessed something larger than geography. It believed it possessed a moral community. That belief now appears increasingly fragile. Perhaps South Africa needs to remember. Perhaps the rest of Africa does too. Memory is not just nostalgia. Memory is also responsibility. It reminds prosperous nations that they depended on others yesterday. It reminds migrants that gratitude travels in both directions. It reminds governments that leadership consists not merely of administering institutions but of protecting relationships.
South Africa cannot live forever on the moral capital accumulated by Mandela’s generation. Every generation must earn its own legitimacy. Nor can the rest of Africa continue to behave as though emotional solidarity alone is sufficient for diplomacy. Friendship among nations requires continuous work. Influence requires engagement. Respect requires reciprocity. Perhaps it is time for three invitations.
The first is for South Africans. Remember that before the world admired your democracy, it admired your struggle. Remember that millions of Africans celebrated your freedom as their own. Remember that history grows poorer whenever gratitude disappears.
The second is for Africans living in South Africa. Live with dignity. Respect your host country. Obey its laws. Contribute to its communities. Remember that every immigrant represents not only themselves but also the nation left behind.
The third is for African governments. Lead. Engage. Speak honestly and boldly. Protect your citizens without provoking your neighbours. Build an African Union capable not merely of holding summits but of shaping relationships.
Once upon a time, Africa sang “Mayibuye iAfrika.” It was more than a slogan. It was a promise. Today, too often, another refrain competes for attention. “Abahambe.” Let them go. Between those two songs lies one of the saddest stories in modern Africa. The journey from solidarity to suspicion, from gratitude to grievance, from shared hope to shared disappointment.
Yet songs can change. So can nations. South Africa can still rediscover yesterday’s memory, the compassion required today and the vision needed for tomorrow. Perhaps then Africa will sing together once more, not because history demands it, but because the future deserves it.
- Anthony Kila, author of “Crucial Cs Around D: The Disciplines of Decision-Making and Leadership,” is a Jean Monnet Professor of Strategy and Development at the Commonwealth Institute of Advanced and Professional Studies (CIAPS). He also serves as Pro-Chancellor and Chairman of the Governing Council of the Michael and Cecilia Ibru University (MCIU).
