The charred wreckage of a South African-owned supermarket smoulders in the northern Nigerian city of Kano. Crowds gather, some jeering, others silent and fearful. This is not a scene of spontaneous violence, but a calculated response to the wave of xenophobic attacks that swept through South Africa last week, leaving more than a dozen dead. Now, the Nigerian government has issued a stark warning: no reprisals. But on the streets, the mood is volatile, and the British Commonwealth’s offer to mediate hangs in the balance.
The attacks in South Africa targeted foreign-owned businesses, many run by Nigerians and other African migrants. In Johannesburg, looters stripped shops bare, and at least two Nigerian nationals were killed. The images of burning tyres and police water cannons have ricocheted across the continent, stoking a fury that feels deeply personal. For many Nigerians, this is not just about property; it is about dignity. The country’s foreign ministry has condemned the violence, while social media buzzes with calls for retaliation. But the official position is clear: ‘Do not take the law into your own hands.’
This is a delicate moment. The British Commonwealth, a vestige of empire that now seeks relevance in a fractured world, has stepped in. London has offered to mediate a dialogue between the two nations’ leaders, a move that some see as paternalistic, others as pragmatic. But on the ground, the human cost is already mounting. In Lagos, South African businesses are closing early. A cashier at a Shoprite store told me, ‘We are afraid. Our own people are turning against us.’ The cultural shift is palpable. What was once a symbol of pan-African trade is now a target.
The irony is not lost on anyone. Nigeria and South Africa are Africa’s two largest economies, rivals and partners in a complex dance of power. Their citizens have long migrated between the countries, seeking opportunity and community. Now, that trust is shattered. The Commonwealth’s mediation may soothe diplomatic nerves, but it cannot repair the bonds that have been broken on the streets. In Johannesburg, a Nigerian shopkeeper whose store was torched says he will not return. ‘This is not my home anymore,’ he whispers. And in Kano, a South African missionary watches her congregation shrink. ‘We are all human,’ she says, but the words feel hollow.
There is a deeper social psychology at play. Xenophobia is not a new phenomenon in South Africa; it boils down to competition for scarce jobs and resources. But the reprisal threats in Nigeria reveal a different dynamic: a righteous anger that feels historical. Many Nigerians view South Africa as a betrayer of the anti-apartheid solidarity that once defined the continent. The memory of Nelson Mandela’s embrace of Nigeria as a brother is fading, replaced by the image of a policeman beating a Nigerian trader.
The British Commonwealth’s role is ambiguous. Some see it as a neutral arbiter, others as a neo-colonial interference. But perhaps its greatest value is symbolic. By offering to mediate, it forces both sides to pause, to consider the optics of violence. Yet, the real work will happen in the communities. In Nigeria, religious leaders are preaching against reprisals. In South Africa, civil society groups are organising peace marches. The question is whether these fragile efforts can hold against the tide of anger.
For now, the warning from Abuja stands: no reprisals. But the embers in Kano still smoke. The Commonwealth mediation may buy time, but the underlying grievances remain. As the sun sets over the continent, it casts long shadows of a fractured brotherhood. The human cost of this crisis is measured not just in lives lost, but in the erosion of a dream: that Africa’s children could one day move freely, without fear.
