By Siyabonga Hadebe
A NATION’S soul is judged by how it treats its most vulnerable. By this measure, South Africa stands on shaky ground, its promises of equality and justice faltering under the burden of inequality and neglect.
The slogan “Not Yet Uhuru” captures the unfulfilled promise of freedom—a dream deferred by systemic oppression and the indifference and complicity of those who should know better, black people themselves.
How have we reached a point where black individuals and elite—themselves survivors of apartheid’s brutalities—have turned their backs on the very communities from which they originated emerged?
A grim reality confronts us, the lives of black children and young people, particularly those from underprivileged backgrounds, are continually sacrificed on the altar of systemic negligence and wilful disregard. Their stories are tragic, their fates preventable, but their voices are silenced by a society that claims to care but refuses to act and instead uses language as violence to conceal the ongoing injustices.
Take, for example, the Enyobeni Tavern tragedy, where 21 young lives, some as young as 13, were snuffed out in an instant during a night of celebration. The aftermath was a familiar theatre of grief and outrage. Politicians and influential personalities offered hollow condolences, community leaders expressed fleeting anger and the media moved on to the next story.
Justice, if one can call it that, came as a paltry R5 000 fine or a 100-day prison sentence for the tavern owners. Such a response is not justice but a grave insult and denigration of those who need protection most.
It tells us that the lives of black children are cheap, their futures expendable. All we know is blaming parents, who also live in a bottomless vast space or hole with no end, for these gruesome events that are treated with Facebook likes and Twitter trends.
A country not valuing its young ones has no future
Oliver Thambo once proclaimed: “The children of any nation are its future. A country, a movement, a person that does not value its youth and children does not deserve its future.” Yet, in South Africa today, black children are dying, not just from physical causes but from a systemic erasure of their worth. Their lives are seen as collateral damage in a society that has normalised inequality and injustice.
The privileged black classes, who should be the torchbearers of change, have largely retreated into their enclaves of comfort, leaving the poor to fend for themselves. For them, every unfortunate situation is looked at from a privileged lens and with no emotion. We have become accustomed to violent language directed at the poor, who are supposedly to blame for their sorry state.
Teenage pregnancies are another quick reminder of our collective failure. Between April 2022 and March 2023, a staggering 150 000 teenage pregnancies were reported in South Africa, with many cases going undocumented. These are not just numbers; they are young girls robbed of their childhoods, forced into premature motherhood and locked into cycles of poverty. In many cases, grown men go unpunished as families struggle to survive at the base of an uncaring society.
These statistics indicate that a society has failed to provide adequate education, healthcare and social support. Privileged blacks are collaborators in the emergence of a new form of apartheid, or ‘neo-apartheid’, as Leonard Gentle terms it. Also, Sizwe Mpofu-Walsh has lamented the renewed apartheidisation of society, where a fortified abyss line continues to be erected to keep out subaltern classes from the privilege that was once reserved for net blankes in South Africa.
Where are the voices of the privileged black individuals and elites in addressing this crisis? Why is there no uproar demanding accountability and systemic change?
Week after week, reports emerge of children in black neighbourhoods dying after consuming expired or unsafe goods from spaza shops. These tragedies are not random but result from systemic neglect and a lack of regulation. Once again, the outrage is temporary, and the grief is performative. The privileged classes shed their crocodile tears, but their lives remain untouched, and their comfort continues undisturbed.
Deep down, the black elites know their children cannot suffer the same fate because no spaza shops are selling stale foods in their new havens, the leafy suburbs. Why should they bother whether these death traps are closed or not? The answer is simple; dirty and rotten food is for the scum of the earth, those living in abject poverty and without voices.
Cheap life and excuses to justify violence against the poor
The death toll from traditional initiation practices in the Eastern Cape adds another layer of heartbreak. In 2024 alone, 61 young boys have died, bringing the total since 2019 to a shocking 253. These deaths are preventable, but they continue unabated, a grim testament to a society that values “our” tradition over life. In a particularly horrifying case, a 39-year-old man was arrested for raping an initiate.
But let us imagine, for a moment, if the children of prominent politicians, wealthy businessmen or influential public figures were among the dead or violated in these Eastern Cape initiation schools.
Would the response remain the same? Would there still be a chorus of empty sympathies and calls for “further investigations”, or would we see immediate action? Would the perpetrators be allowed to walk free, or would the machinery of justice move swiftly and decisively?
Imagine if a child of a prominent public figure, like a corporate tycoon or politician, were raped while undergoing traditional initiation or killed after consuming expired snacks from a spaza shop. The nation would erupt in collective outrage. Parliament would be convened in an emergency session. Policies would be overhauled, regulations tightened and heads would roll. The tragedy would dominate headlines for weeks, and promises of “never, never again” would echo from the chambers of power.
But, the children who do die—the nameless, faceless ones from impoverished black families—are met with indifference and endless excuses like “amakrwala were operating illegally” or “parents must ensure that their children do eat or consume sweets and alcohol from unregistered places”. The United Nations speaks about the “state duty to protect”, meaning these victims have no means or aptitude to know who is illegal or unregistered.
Their lives are not deemed worthy of systemic change. Their deaths are written off as unfortunate accidents, their suffering dismissed as the inevitable consequence of poverty. At the same time, those who enjoy the new status in their new, exclusive South Africa have the means to hire health professionals and put in place other measures to prevent the “sorry” deaths.
Hypocrisy lies at the heart of our society.
When the marginalised suffer, their pain is dismissed, and their lives are reduced to statistics. But when the privileged are touched by tragedy, the nation awakens, policies are reviewed and accountability is demanded. The water and electricity challenges were deemed a national crisis because the wealthy and privileged were affected.
In contrast, millions of South Africans have been sharing dirty poodles with animals for a long time, and nobody is bothered. This double standard is not just a moral failing; it betrays the principles of equality and justice that should guide our nation.
Through all these tragedies runs a common thread; the weaponisation of language to obscure, minimise and perpetuate violence against the downtrodden.
Fanon’s ‘zone of non-being’ and violent language
Frantz Fanon’s “zone of non-being” is an apt description of how language and societal structures dehumanise the poor, relegating them to spaces where their existence is neither valued nor protected. Empty phrases like “thoughts and prayers” or “we will investigate” serve only to placate, not to address. Language becomes a tool of violence, a means to silence dissent and perpetuate the status quo.
The privileged black classes are complicit in this ongoing violence. They have swapped the shackles of apartheid for the golden cages of capitalism, abandoning the principles of solidarity and collective upliftment. Steve Biko warned us of this danger: “Black man, you are on your own.” Today, that warning resonates anew as the privileged turn their backs on the communities they once called home.
It only takes us a good job and wages to elevate ourselves and look down upon those we used to, kgaogana tlhogwana ya tsie le bona (literally, to share the head of a locust in Setswana). This occurs within our families, neighbourhoods and broader society. The language of exclusion is very polished these days, as we tell our unemployed cousins and neighbours that they “do not belong” at weddings, imigidi and other family gatherings.
This betrayal is not merely a moral failure; it is a failure of imagination. It is a failure to recognise that the suffering of the poor and marginalised is not solely their suffering but an open wound in the soul of our nation. It is a failure to understand that true freedom, true Uhuru, can only be achieved when the most vulnerable among us are protected, valued and uplifted.
The next revolution in South Africa, if it ever happens, would be against privilege and classism, both black and white superiority would be targeted, as young Kenyans recently demonstrated with some success. The reaction by those we continue to marginalise and deny opportunities and voices will come as an expected surprise as we drive ourselves to the point of no return.
Siyayibanga le economy!
* Hadebe is an independent commentator on socio-economic, political and global matters. The views expressed here are his own.