Twenty-seven years after the death of Joshua Nkomo, the Pan-African dream he fought for faces one of its greatest betrayals not from former colonial powers, but from Africans themselves.
As Zimbabwe remembers Umdala Wethu on July 1, painful scenes are unfolding in South Africa, where fresh waves of xenophobic violence have once again forced African migrants to flee for safety.
Zimbabweans, Malawians, Mozambicans and Nigerians are among thousands gripped by fear as anti-migrant tensions escalate.
In heartbreaking scenes, many have been forced to sleep in the bitter winter cold in open spaces, makeshift camps and outside consulates, desperately waiting for buses to take them home.
Countries such as Zimbabwe and Malawi have since last week reportedly dispatched buses to repatriate frightened citizens fleeing the violence.
These are not just scenes of displacement.
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They are scenes of Africa turning against itself.
And they force a painful question: what happened to Pan-Africanism?
For a liberation giant like Joshua Nkomo, such scenes would be deeply disturbing.
Nkomo belonged to a generation of leaders who understood liberation as a collective African mission.
He did not fight for Zimbabwe alone. During the liberation struggle, he lived in exile in several African countries, including South Africa, Zambia and Botswana, relying on the solidarity of fellow Africans as nations supported one another against colonial oppression.
Those countries opened doors to freedom fighters. They offered sanctuary. They understood that the liberation of one African nation was tied to the liberation of all.
That was the essence of Pan-Africanism.
It was not empty rhetoric. It was a philosophy of survival.
It recognised that colonialism thrived by dividing Africans, by teaching them to distrust one another, by turning neighbour against neighbour.
That is why today’s xenophobic attacks feel like a painful historical contradiction.
The same continent that once sheltered freedom fighters is now watching some Africans chase fellow Africans from homes, workplaces and communities.
Instead of unity, suspicion is growing.
Instead of solidarity, hostility is hardening.
Instead of brotherhood, fear is taking root.
The tragedy is not only the violence itself, but what it says about modern Africa.
It suggests a continent slowly forgetting the ideals that shaped its liberation movements.
Many young Africans know the names of liberation heroes, but fewer understand the values they fought for.
Freedom was never simply about replacing white rulers with black governments. It was about dignity, justice, equality and shared progress.
It was about ensuring that no African would feel like a stranger in another African land.
Yet that dream is increasingly under siege.
Xenophobia reflects more than hatred of foreigners. It reflects economic frustration, social inequality and deep anger over failed governance. When jobs disappear and poverty deepens, outsiders become easy scapegoats.
But blaming migrants solves nothing.
A struggling vendor from Zimbabwe did not create unemployment.
A Malawian mechanic did not collapse service delivery.
A Mozambican labourer did not engineer corruption.
Blaming foreigners may provide emotional release, but it does not fix structural failure.
That is why xenophobia is so dangerous.
It redirects anger away from power and towards the powerless.
And once societies normalise that logic, hatred becomes easier to justify.
Throughout his political life, Nkomo preached reconciliation, unity and dialogue, even during Zimbabwe’s darkest moments of division.
Perhaps the greatest example came after Gukurahundi, one of Zimbabwe’s most painful chapters, when thousands of civilians in Matabeleland and the Midlands lost their lives.
Nkomo had every reason to remain bitter.
He had endured persecution, humiliation and deep political pain.
Yet despite those wounds, he chose dialogue over revenge and reconciliation over hatred, culminating in the Unity Accord.
He understood a truth many leaders still fail to grasp: anger may be justified, but hatred rarely builds nations.
Hatred destroys from within.
That lesson feels especially relevant today.
Equally troubling is the deafening silence of many African leaders.
The same leaders who speak passionately at summits about colonialism, sanctions and Western interference have said little while Africans are being hunted, displaced and terrorised by fellow Africans.
Where is the collective outrage? Where is the urgent intervention? Where is the moral leadership?
African Union declarations about unity mean little if that unity exists only in conference halls and official communiqués.
African solidarity cannot survive as ceremonial rhetoric.
It must be defended in real life in the streets of Johannesburg, in the townships of Durban and in the communities of Cape Town where fear now stalks vulnerable migrants.
If African leaders remain silent while Africans turn against each other, then they too become complicit in the slow death of Pan-Africanism.
The people being attacked are not invaders.
They are workers, traders, mothers and children.
Many crossed borders not to conquer, but to survive.
They are human beings searching for dignity.
Nkomo did not fight for an Africa where borders would become battle lines.
He fought for an Africa where black dignity would be restored.
An Africa where solidarity would triumph over fear.
An Africa where no African would be hunted because of an accent, passport or surname.
Twenty-seven years after his death, Nkomo’s legacy stands as both inspiration and warning.
Inspiration because he showed what principled leadership and unity can achieve.
Warning because the moment Africans turn against one another, the liberation dream begins to die.
As Zimbabwe commemorates Umdala Wethu this week, the most meaningful tribute may not lie in speeches, monuments or wreaths.
It may lie in confronting an uncomfortable truth.
When thousands of Africans sleep in the cold, waiting for rescue from fellow Africans, Pan-Africanism is in crisis.
And unless Africa rediscovers the unity leaders like Joshua Nkomo fought for, Umdala Wethu’s dream may not die in foreign hands.
It may die in African ones.