Stranger in My Own Continent: A Malawian’s Story of Xenophobia in South AfricaBy Tionge Phiri (Guest)Johannesburg

I never thought I would know the taste of fear. Not like this.

I left Lilongwe five years ago with a dream stitched into the lining of my suitcase. South Africa was supposed to be the promised land the economic heartbeat of Africa, where a hardworking man could send money home to his mother and build something for his children.

I am Malawian. We are peaceful people. We come to work, not to fight. But in South Africa, that doesn't seem to matter.

The Day Everything Changed

It was a Tuesday in April. I was walking home from my shift at a warehouse in Germiston  twelve hours of lifting boxes, my back screaming, but my heart light because I had just sent R1,500 to my sister for her school fees.

Then I heard the chanting.

“Ayihlale le ndawo! Susa abokufika!” (This land must be emptied! Remove the foreigners!)

A crowd was gathering at the end of the street. Young men, some still in their school uniforms, others holding sticks wrapped in tape. I recognized the energy. It had happened before, in 2008, in 2015, in 2019. But you never think it will be your street. Your Tuesday.

I started running.

Behind me, I heard the smashing of windows. A Somali-owned spaza shop. Then a Zimbabwean vendor's fruit stand. Then  God help me  I heard a woman screaming in Chichewa. My language. My people.

The Lies They Believe

Here is what South Africans are told about us:

· We steal jobs.

· We bring drugs.

· We refuse to learn local languages.

· We send all our money home and contribute nothing to the economy.

And here is the truth:

I work 14-hour days because no South African wanted that warehouse job. The minimum wage is below the poverty line, but I take it because back home, that same amount feeds my entire village for a week.

I have paid taxes for five years. I have never been arrested. I greet my neighbors in Zulu  Sawubona  and help fix their cars for free.

But xenophobia is not about facts. It is about frustration. When a young man in Alexandra township cannot find a job, it is easier to blame me  the foreigner with the different accent  than to blame a system that has failed him for generations.

I understand the pain. I just wish it didn't land on my chest.

What Happened to My Friend, Laston

Laston Banda was a Malawian from Mchinji. He sold vegetables at a market in Soweto. Polite. Quiet. He learned to say “Yebo, sisi” with such a perfect accent that people forgot he was Malawian until they saw his ID.

One night in March, three men came to his shack. They demanded his phone, his money, and then they demanded he leave the country by sunrise.

He refused.

They beat him with a shovel. Broke his jaw. Left him bleeding on the pavement while neighbors walked

past.

I visited him in the hospital. His wife was crying, holding a newborn who had never seen his father smile. The hospital bill was R28,000. No one from the police had come to take a statement.

“We should go home,” she whispered to me.

I had no answer. Because where is home? Malawi’s economy is drowning. South Africa is burning. And the rest of the world sees us as just another African tragedy.

We Are Not Your Enemy

There are over 200,000 Malawians living in South Africa. We work as domestic workers, security guards, miners, farm laborers. We send billions of rands back home every year money that pays for medicine, schoolbooks, and funeral costs.

We are not criminals. We are not parasites.

We are the nurse who held your mother's hand in the hospital. We are the gardener who made your lawn green. We are the person who served you coffee this morning and smiled even though we hadn't eaten since yesterday.

But when the mob comes, they do not see our faces. They see a threat. And they swing.

A Letter to My South African Neighbors

To the man who sells amagwinya next to my taxi rank:

I see you. I know you are also struggling. Your rent is late. Your child needs school shoes. I do not blame you for being angry. But please do not point that anger at me.

We share a continent. We share a history of colonialism, of apartheid, of borders drawn by white men who never asked our permission. We are brothers who have been taught to fight each other for scraps.

The real enemy is not the Malawian with his vegetable cart. The real enemy is poverty. Corruption. Unemployment. Bad governance.

When you burn my shop, you do not burn “the foreigner.” You burn the only livelihood an orphan from Lilongwe had. You burn the medicine his grandmother needs. You burn the future.

What Comes Next?

I have not decided whether to stay. My heart says no too many stones, too many nights sleeping with one eye open. But my bank account says I have no choice.

So I will keep working. Keep paying my rent. Keep sending money home. Keep learning Zulu until my tongue bends around the clicks.

And I will keep hoping that one day, a South African will see me not as “umakwerekwere” the slur they use for people like me but as a man. A father. A neighbor.

A human being, trying to survive.

Just like them.

Tionge Phiri is a pseudonym used for the author’s safety.