The news of Malawian citizens being repatriated from South Africa lands with a heavy thud. It is a story not of politics, but of people. Of men and women who left home for a chance, and now return with suitcases full of fear. The British consular support offered is a Band-Aid on a deep wound, a reminder that even in the 21st century, belonging can be revoked on a whim.
What does it mean to be chased from a place you called home? For the Malawians streaming across the border, it is the sudden collapse of a life. The grocer who built a shop in Johannesburg. The nurse who tended to patients in Durban. They are not statistics. They are individuals whose daily routines have been shattered by a tide of violence. The streets of Pretoria and Hillbrow, once vibrant with the melody of different accents, now hum with a different tune: one of suspicion and fear.
Social psychologists would call it a crisis of identity. South Africa, a nation built on the promise of unity, is fracturing along familiar lines. The 'other' is blamed for unemployment, for crime, for the slow pace of change. And the Malawian, the Zimbabwean, the Nigerian, become convenient scapegoats. This is not new. History textbooks are stained with such chapters. But for those living it, on the ground, there is no textbook. There is only the panic of packing, the scramble for a bus ticket, the hollow comfort of a consular hotline.
Class dynamics play a subtle role here. The Malawians who left were often those with ambition, those willing to risk everything for a better wage. They occupy a precarious middle ground in South Africa's economy: not quite elite, but not destitute. They are the taxi drivers, the hair braiders, the street vendors. Their departure leaves a gap, not just in the labour market but in the social fabric. The corner shop closes. The chatter in Chichewa fades. The city loses a little more of its colour.
Meanwhile, in Lilongwe and Blantyre, families brace for the return. There is a quiet humiliation in coming back with empty hands. The repatriation is not a homecoming. It is a retreat. The British offer of support feels distant, a gesture from a nation that has its own battles with borders and belonging. It is a reminder that global citizenship is a privilege, not a right.
As the buses cross the border at Mwanza, the passengers stare out at the changing landscape. They are caught between two worlds, unwelcome in one, uncertain in the other. This is the human cost of xenophobia: lives uprooted, dreams deferred, and a stark lesson in how quickly the door can close.
