When the word “xenophobic” is talked about, most affected African countries tend to focus on the pains being experienced by their citizens in South Africa. For a moment, it calls for Nigeria and the rest of the African continent to pause and ask, how did we get here?
The recent happenings across the streets of Johannesburg, Pretoria, and Durban, a painful pattern continues to unfold with frightening and fearful regularity, as Nigerian-owned businesses are looted, migrants hunted, families displaced, and African nationals reduced to targets of rage. If asked, the majority would chorus that the recurring images of xenophobic violence in South Africa are disturbing enough, and no doubt, yes, but the deeper tragedy is beyond the flames and bloodshed. It lies in the silent failures back home that forced many Nigerians into vulnerable exile in the first place.
The reality, as a matter of fact, is that to understand the suffering of Nigerians in South Africa, one must first confront the uncomfortable truth that xenophobia is not merely a South African problem. It is also a Nigerian governance problem exported abroad.
Nigeria, often celebrated as the “Giant of Africa,” has now become the “Mama Africa” who has failed to nurture her many children, with the fact that behind every Nigerian fleeing hardship for survival, known as the “japa” syndrome, in another African country is a story shaped by economic frustration, failed institutions, poor leadership, unemployment, and a financial system disconnected from the realities of ordinary citizens.
One apt way to confirm these inimical factors, the South African president, Cyril Ramaphosa, recently acknowledged this uncomfortable reality when he urged African leaders to address the domestic failures driving mass migration across the continent. Speaking amid renewed anti-foreigner tensions, Ramaphosa identified “misgovernance” as one of the factors forcing Africans to seek refuge in countries like South Africa. Of a truth, his comments may have generated debate, and some “patriotic Nigerians” may also want to prove him wrong, but they reflected a painful reality many African governments would rather avoid.
Nigeria, despite its vast human and natural resources, has increasingly become a country where millions no longer see a future at home. This is a critical irony and the height of it all because a nation blessed with oil wealth and entrepreneurial energy and one of the youngest populations in the world is yet burdened by systemic corruption, policy inconsistency, infrastructural collapse, and a leadership class that has often prioritised politics over productivity, especially with the imminence of an election.
It is so detestable and at the same time fearful that the result is a generation of young Nigerians trapped between hopelessness and migration.
One regrettable experience that has continued to haunt the country for decades is that successive governments have squandered opportunities that could have transformed Nigeria into an industrial and economic powerhouse. Public resources that should have been invested in power, roads, healthcare, manufacturing, education and enterprise development have either disappeared into private pockets or become trapped in wasteful bureaucratic structures.
Reports indicating that over $214 billion in public funds may have been lost, diverted, or trapped in opaque fiscal systems over the last decade capture the scale of Nigeria’s accountability crisis. Whether exact or conservative, such figures reveal a country losing resources or funds rapidly from severe bleeding that could have changed millions of lives.
Looking intently at these developments, one would know that the tragedy is not merely corruption itself but the opportunities corruption destroyed.
Come to think of this fact that with proper governance and strategic economic planning, Nigeria could have developed a thriving SME ecosystem capable of employing millions of citizens. Instead, unemployment and underemployment have become defining realities of national life. The World Economic Forum recently identified unemployment and lack of economic opportunity as Nigeria’s greatest economic threat, yet the country continues to struggle with coherent employment data and long-term economic direction.
This economic suffocation explains why migration has become less of a choice and more of a survival strategy for many Nigerians.
At the centre of this crisis is another troubling contradiction, which is that Nigeria’s banking sector appears increasingly profitable while the real economy continues to deteriorate.
Ordinarily, banks in developing economies are expected to function as engines of growth by financing productive sectors, supporting innovation, and empowering small businesses. Across the world, SMEs are recognised as the backbone of grassroots economic development, and the tangible result is that they create jobs, stimulate local production, and expand economic participation.
In Nigeria, SMEs account for over 70 per cent of registered businesses, contribute nearly half of the country’s GDP and generate between 84 and 90 per cent of employment. Yet, despite their enormous economic importance, SMEs receive barely between 0.5 per cent and one per cent of total commercial bank lending.
This is not just a policy failure; it is an economic tragedy. Rather than financing entrepreneurs and productive enterprises, Nigerian banks have increasingly found comfort in investing heavily in government treasury securities. In 2025 alone, major Nigerian banks reportedly generated N6.68 trillion from total investment securities and treasury bills, benefiting from high-yield government debt instruments instead of supporting businesses capable of creating jobs.
The banking sector’s recapitalisation exercise, which successfully raised N4.56 trillion, was celebrated as a regulatory achievement. But the critical question remains. The recapitalisation is for what purpose?
If stronger banks continue to avoid the productive economy while SMEs remain starved of affordable credit, recapitalisation merely strengthens financial institutions without strengthening national development.
Today, private sector credit in Nigeria remains significantly low compared to many African economies. High interest rates, excessive collateral demands, weak credit infrastructure and risk-averse banking practices have created an environment where small businesses struggle to survive, and these implications are devastating.
Every denied SME loan is a denied employment opportunity. Every failed business is another frustrated entrepreneur. Every frustrated entrepreneur is another Nigerian considering migration.
This is how economic dysfunction transforms into human displacement. In a situation like this, it is noteworthy to state that South Africa naturally becomes an attractive destination because of its relatively advanced infrastructure and larger economy. Today, this has informed Nigerians and other African countries alike to migrate there, not because they hate their country but because they are searching for dignity through work and enterprise.
Yet, in a cruel twist, many become targets of xenophobic violence. Foreign nationals are accused of “taking jobs,” dominating businesses, and contributing to crime. Shops are attacked. Businesses are burned. Lives are lost.
It is not a surprise anymore that the disturbing rhetoric surrounding xenophobia has become increasingly normalised and perceived as fighting against saboteurs. Another major concern is that social media posts celebrating violence against Nigerians reveal a frightening and fearful dehumanisation of fellow Africans. This has continued to be heralded unaddressed, as some extremist anti-migrant groups now openly mobilise hostility against foreign nationals under the guise of economic nationalism.
Yet, as opposition leader Julius Malema rightly asked during one of the recent xenophobic debates. “After attacking foreigners and shutting down their businesses, how many jobs have actually been created?” If you are smart enough to know, it is glaring that this is a question that cuts through the emotional manipulation surrounding xenophobia, which also reflects the fact that destroying a Nigerian-owned shop does not solve unemployment, nor does killing migrants create prosperity. Violence against fellow Africans does not fix structural inequality.
Malema’s argument was blunt but accurate in revealing that xenophobia is not an economic strategy. It must be perceived with the right perspective as the symptom of deeper failures, poverty, inequality, weak governance, and political frustration.
Historically, just like other colonised African countries, South Africa itself carries deep old wounds. The legacy of apartheid left enduring economic inequalities, spatial segregation, unemployment, and psychological scars, but this should not continue to shape social tensions today. What is of concern is that the same people, like other African countries, experienced, were expected to remain forward-looking and forge ahead rather than dwell in the past.
It is even more pathetic that decades after the fall of apartheid, millions of Black South Africans remain trapped in poverty and exclusion; perhaps they are not to be blamed for their failures as they claimed, but the foreigners who didn’t stop them from exerting their skills become the scapegoats.
That frustration often seeks an outlet, and immigrants become easy scapegoats. This, however, does not excuse the brutality.
The stories emerging from xenophobic attacks are horrifying and very dastardly and humiliating, as African migrants have reportedly been beaten, burned alive, stoned, and hunted in communities where they once sought refuge, as two Nigerian citizens were said to have been beaten and burnt to death. To say the least, the pain becomes even more ironic when viewed against history.