By Emeka Monye
In 1988, as international pressure against apartheid reached a crescendo, South Africa’s then State President Pieter Willem Botha allegedly declared that Black Africans lacked the capacity to govern themselves. The statement, widely circulated but never verified in an official transcript, was stark: “Black people cannot rule themselves because they don’t have the brain and mental capacity to govern a society. Give them guns, they would kill themselves; give them power, they will steal all the government money; give them independence and democracy, they will use it to promote tribalism, ethnicity, bigotry, hatred, killings and wars.” A longer version of an alleged 1985 speech described Black people as “a symbol of poverty, mental inferiority, laziness and emotional incompetence.”
Botha was the architect of “reform apartheid” — a policy that eased some racial restrictions while entrenching white minority rule. He legalized interracial marriage, relaxed the Group Areas Act, and granted limited political rights to Coloured and Indian South Africans. But he drew the line at Black majority rule, refusing to negotiate with the African National Congress or release Nelson Mandela for most of his tenure. His words, whether authentic or apocryphal, reflected the ideological core of apartheid: that white minority rule was necessary because Black Africans were incapable of self-governance.
More than three decades after apartheid ended and South Africa became a democracy, that assertion has resurfaced in public discourse — not from white supremacists, but from some Africans reacting to a painful reality: the periodic eruption of xenophobic violence against fellow Africans in South Africa.
Since 2008, South Africa has witnessed repeated waves of attacks on African migrants. Shops owned by Nigerians, Somalis, Zimbabweans, and Mozambicans have been looted and burned. Foreign nationals have been beaten, killed, and displaced from townships. In September 2019, mobs targeted foreign-owned businesses in Johannesburg and Pretoria, forcing hundreds to flee. In 2021 and again in 2023, similar violence flared in Durban and Gauteng, often justified by perpetrators as a response to unemployment and crime.
The victims are not Europeans or Asians. They are Africans — fellow members of the African Union, fellow signatories to the African Continental Free Trade Area, fellow citizens of a continent that preaches Pan-African solidarity. The irony is bitter. A country that itself endured decades of racial exclusion now finds sections of its population directing similar exclusion toward other Black Africans.
This is the context in which Botha’s alleged statement is being recalled. For some commentators, the attacks are not just criminal acts. They are seen as evidence of a deeper dysfunction — a failure of governance, social cohesion, and civic responsibility that extends beyond South Africa’s borders and into the broader African experience.
Africa is the world’s youngest continent, with 60 percent of its population under 25. It is also the richest in natural resources, holding 30 percent of the world’s mineral reserves and 65 percent of its arable land. Yet it remains the least developed continent on nearly every index — from GDP per capita to healthcare, education, and infrastructure.
The reasons are complex and historical. Colonialism dismantled indigenous governance structures, imposed arbitrary borders, and created extractive economies designed to serve European powers. Post-independence, many African states inherited weak institutions and were immediately confronted with Cold War proxy conflicts, debt burdens, and the challenge of nation-building across diverse ethnic groups.
The result has been a pattern of instability: civil wars in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Rwanda, and Sudan. Military coups in Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, and Guinea. Election rigging, corruption, and weak rule of law in numerous countries. Banditry and insurgency in the Sahel and North-East Nigeria. These are not abstract problems. They have consequences — for economic development, for migration, and for the way Africans are perceived both at home and abroad.
South Africa has not been immune. Despite its advanced infrastructure and democratic institutions, it struggles with inequality, unemployment hovering above 30 percent, and high levels of violent crime. In this environment, foreign nationals often become scapegoats. They are accused of taking jobs, running informal businesses without permits, and contributing to crime. The narrative is familiar: when institutions fail to deliver economic opportunity, blame is shifted to the outsider.
The core of Botha’s argument — and the uncomfortable question it raises today — is about institutions. Governance is not just about holding elections. It is about building systems that protect property rights, enforce contracts, deliver public services, and hold leaders accountable. It is about a culture where the rule of law supersedes tribal loyalty, where constitutional authority is respected, and where citizens feel safe and included.
In many African countries, those institutions remain weak. Courts are slow or compromised. Police are under-resourced and often seen as predatory. Civil service is politicized. Corruption is normalized. When the state fails to provide security and economic opportunity, informal power structures — ethnic militias, vigilante groups, criminal gangs — fill the vacuum.
South Africa’s xenophobic attacks reveal the same deficit. The state has been slow to prosecute perpetrators. Political leaders have at times used anti-foreigner rhetoric for political gain. Communities feel abandoned by law enforcement and take justice into their own hands. The result is a breakdown of social order that mirrors the instability seen in other parts of the continent.
To raise this question is not to endorse Botha’s racism. His worldview was rooted in white supremacy and designed to justify domination. History has disproven him in the most fundamental way: Black Africans have governed themselves since independence, building nations, universities, businesses, and cultural institutions. Countries like Botswana, Rwanda, Ghana, and Mauritius have shown that stable governance and economic growth are possible in an African context.
But it is also true that self-governance has not delivered the prosperity and unity that early independence leaders like Kwame Nkrumah, Julius Nyerere, and Patrice Lumumba envisioned. Instead, many African states remain trapped in cycles of conflict and underdevelopment. The African Union’s Agenda 2063 speaks of a “peaceful and prosperous Africa,” but the reality on the ground often falls short.
The xenophobic attacks in South Africa force a difficult conversation. If Africans cannot protect other Africans within their own borders, what does that say about the project of African unity? If economic competition between Africans leads to violence rather than cooperation, how can the continent achieve meaningful integration under the African Continental Free Trade Area?
Botha’s assertion was meant to deny Africans agency. The proper response is not to accept it, but to confront the failures that give it superficial resonance. That means African governments must do more to strengthen institutions, protect migrants, and address the economic grievances that fuel xenophobia. It means civil society must challenge hate speech and promote a culture of tolerance. It means citizens must hold leaders accountable for delivering governance that works.
It also means rejecting the temptation to generalize. South Africa’s attacks do not represent all South Africans. Many South Africans have condemned the violence, sheltered foreign nationals, and called for solidarity. Similarly, Africa’s governance challenges do not define all 54 countries on the continent. There are islands of stability and progress that offer a counter-narrative.
The real danger is silence — the refusal to acknowledge that something is broken. Africa cannot afford to normalize dysfunction or to dismiss criticism as neo-colonialism. Self-determination comes with responsibility: the responsibility to build societies that are just, safe, and prosperous for all who live within them, regardless of nationality.
Pieter Willem Botha’s words were born out of prejudice and intended to perpetuate oppression. They should be rejected for what they are — a justification for racial exclusion. Yet the recurring xenophobic violence in South Africa, and the broader governance challenges across Africa, demand honest reflection.
The path forward lies not in proving Botha right, but in proving him wrong through action. That means building institutions that work, economies that create opportunity, and societies that uphold the dignity of every person — African or otherwise. Until then, the question of Africa’s capacity to govern itself will remain open, not because of race, but because of the unfinished work of state-building.
Africa’s renaissance will not come from denying its problems. It will come from facing them, learning from them, and resolving to do better. That is the only answer worthy of the continent’s future.
*Emeka Monye Is A Journalist*
