The air above the Nigerian consulate in Johannesburg smelled of diesel and anxiety. By midday, a queue had formed—not of people seeking visas, but of those looking to leave. House painters, phone repairmen, small-scale traders, and university students stood shoulder to shoulder, clutching worn suitcases and crying, babies. They had come in response to an announcement that spread through WhatsApp and TikTok like wildfire: Nigeria would offer free flights home to any citizen who wanted to flee South Africa.
The offer, brokered between the Nigerian consulate and the Nigeria Citizens Association South Africa (NICASA), came as protests over illegal immigration, unemployment, and crime spiraled across the country’s economic heartland. For two weeks, marches had erupted in Johannesburg’s dilapidated CBD, the sprawling dormitory townships of Pretoria, and the humid port city of Durban. What began as community grievances had metastasized into something uglier: shop lootings, road blockades, and the shooting of two Ethiopian shop owners in a Soweto high street—a grim echo of the 2019 xenophobic attacks that left over a dozen dead.
“I’ve been here fifteen years,” said Chidi Okonkwo, a 42-year-old spare parts dealer from Onitsha, adjusting the straps of his backpack. “I survived the last attacks. I rebuilt. But my children are asking me why people who don’t know them want to burn their father’s shop. I can’t explain that anymore.”
South Africa’s unemployment rate stands at a staggering 32%—nearly 45% for young people. In the vacuum of economic opportunity, frustration has found familiar scapegoats. Migrants from Zimbabwe, Malawi, Ethiopia, and especially Nigeria—Africa’s most populous nation—have become lightning rods. Signs at some demonstrations read: “Go Home,” “Our Jobs First,” and “Stop the Invasion.”
But not all leaders have stoked the flames. Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) leader Julius Malema, never one to shy from controversy, took a rare stand against the anti-immigrant rhetoric. “Our enemy is not a Nigerian selling sneakers on a corner,” Malema told a rally in Katlehong. “Our enemy is a government that has no plan for its youth. Blame the system, not the stranger.”
ActionSA, by contrast, has pushed for stricter deportation measures, arguing that “porous borders and unvetted immigration” exacerbate crime and wage depression. The party’s parliamentary caucus called for a national audit of foreign-owned spaza shops and salons, claiming many operate outside tax and safety regulations. Nigerian business owners say they are already closing up—not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because survival has become too expensive.
“This week alone, three of my clients shut their doors,” said NICASA spokesperson Chika Okafor, standing outside the consulate with a clipboard. “Not because they were raided. Not because their visas expired. But because the atmosphere—the looks, the whispers, the rocks thrown through windows at 2 a.m.—tells them they are not wanted. Free flights are a lifeline, but also a tragedy. It means we’ve failed to protect our own.”
The Nigerian government, eager to avoid a replay of the 2019 crisis when it evacuated hundreds of citizens and paid millions in compensation claims, moved swiftly. President Bola Tinubu’s administration approved the repatriation chartered flights, with the first scheduled to depart from OR Tambo International Airport within 72 hours. Each returning citizen will receive a small cash stipend for transport from the airport to their home state—an attempt to head off the kind of stranded returnee crises that marred evacuations from Libya and Ukraine.
But not everyone is boarding. Some Nigerian-led businesses in Cape Town and Gqeberha have reported no unrest and say they will stay, hoping the storm passes. Others have formed neighborhood watch groups with South African shop owners, determined to draw a line between violent xenophobia and genuine community safety concerns.
“The protestors have a point about illegal and undocumented migration—our own government would agree,” said Thabo Mkhize, a domestic worker and father of three in Alexandra township, who joined a march but rejected violence. “But shooting someone because they speak a different language? That’s not patriotism. That’s madness.”
As dusk settled over Johannesburg, the consulate’s queue had not shrunk. A young man named Uche sat cross-legged on the pavement, scrolling through his phone. He had run a small electronics repair stall in the city center until last week, when masked men chased him out with a machete. “Back home, everyone thinks South Africa is the dream,” he said quietly. “But when the dream turns into a nightmare, who holds the door open? Today, Nigeria did. Tomorrow… who knows?”
Whether the free flights mark the end of this wave of unrest or merely a pause, one thing is clear: the ties between Africa’s two largest economies—knotted by history, trade, and migration—are being tested once again. And for thousands of Nigerians who made South Africa their second home, the hardest question is no longer “Should I go?” but “Will I ever be able to come back?”
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