Diversity, at its most basic, is the presence of difference within any given environment: difference in age, colour, ethnicity, gender, ability, culture, belief, etc. It is what makes communities rich, resilient, and vibrant. Yet across Africa today, diversity is being turned into a weapon of hatred, exclusion, and violence. From Durban to Accra and to Nairobi, there is a concern of Africans turning against Africans, and Kenyans turning against Kenyans.
These cases are not isolated. They reflect a worrying evolution in how identity-based conflict is playing out in our region, thus demanding more than condemnation. They require a rethink of our approaches.
In South Africa, we have seen the rise of Afrophobia (discrimination targeting people of African descent and Black people) with locals targeting foreign-owned businesses and individuals, particularly migrants from Zimbabwe, Nigeria, and Somalia. The slur “makwerekwere”, a deeply derogatory term used to demean African migrants, has become a rallying cry for exclusion. The consequences have been devastating: lives lost, livelihoods destroyed, and communities torn apart.
Economic grievances are cited, and in that climate of desperation, migrants become convenient scapegoats. But economic frustration does not justify criminality.
Ghana, too, has seen documented episodes of Afrophobia, particularly directed at Nigerian traders and other Africans amid economic tensions. The narrative is the same that foreigners are taking “our” jobs, dominating markets, and displacing locals.
Kenya is not exempt. Here, the fault lines run not along national borders, but along ethnic identity, witnessed as early as the post-colonial era. An example is a court case involving an aspiring political leader from Garissa County, who reportedly used derogatory terms against non-locals. Under the National Cohesion and Integration Act, CAP 7N, such statements may constitute hate speech, which is a criminal offence that exists precisely because words of that nature cause real, measurable harm.
What makes this case particularly alarming is its timing. With elections set for 2027, we are already in the pre-election period where crowds are easily inflamed and mobilised. Kenyans need not look far into their own history to understand the risks. The post-election violence of 2007/08, which claimed over 1,300 lives and displaced hundreds of thousands, did not erupt overnight. It was incubated over years of ethnically charged political discourse, then brought to a boil by irresponsible leaders. It should serve as a warning, not a fading memory.
Afrophobia and ethnophobia sentiments are polarising by design. They erode social cohesion, sow distrust between neighbours, and in extreme cases can radicalise communities into violence. In every case examined here, the language of hatred preceded the act of violence. Speech is never merely speech when its purpose is to dehumanise.
The consequences of such violence are not only humanitarian, but they are economic too. Kenya’s own 2007/08 experience showed us this clearly: infrastructure was destroyed, foreign investors withdrew, and government resources that should have gone toward development were diverted to managing insecurity. Division is expensive. Hatred has a price tag, and ordinary citizens pay it.
Every one of us has a responsibility to protect our peace. We can do this by refusing to spread divisive narratives, by challenging hate speech when we encounter it, and by demanding that institutions, including the courts, the NCIC, and the media, enforce the norms that hold us together.
