By SkyDNews   There are words that carry so much beauty that we admire them almost instinctively. They express ideals we would like to believe define us, compassion, dignity, solidarity, kindness and our responsibility to one another.     Ubuntu is one of those words.     Associated particularly with Southern Africa, Ubuntu is commonly understood as a philosophy of humanity, interconnectedness and shared dignity. It is often captured in the expression, “I am because we are.” Another well-known formulation, umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu, conveys the idea that a person becomes fully human through other people.     At its heart, Ubuntu asks us to recognise something simple but profound: our humanity is connected. What happens to another person should matter to us because we are part of the same human community.     It is a powerful idea.     But there is a question that Africa, and particularly South Africa, must be willing to confront: Are we still living Ubuntu, or have we become better at talking about it than practising it?     That question becomes difficult when we consider the persistence of xenophobia and Afrophobia, the treatment of African migrants, and the continuing controversy surrounding the case of Chidimma Adetshina.     This is not an argument that South Africans are xenophobic. They are not. Millions of South Africans live peacefully alongside migrants from across Africa and the world. Nor is it an argument against South Africa's sovereign right to regulate immigration.     It is, rather, an invitation to examine the distance that can sometimes emerge between a nation's ideals and its lived reality.     And that is where the meaning of Ubuntu becomes particularly important.     Ubuntu cannot mean “I am because we are” only when “we” means people like me     If Ubuntu is about our shared humanity, then it cannot be limited by nationality, ethnicity, language or birthplace.     It cannot mean: “I am because my people are.”     Nor can it mean: “I care about you because you belong to my group.”     And it certainly cannot mean: “Your humanity matters less because you were born across the border.”     Ubuntu must be bigger than that.     The South African government has itself described Ubuntu in terms of human dignity, compassion, equality, togetherness, caring for others and the recognition of our interdependence. That understanding places an important responsibility on both government and society.     If that is what Ubuntu means, then xenophobia presents a direct challenge to it.     There is nothing wrong with loving one's country. There is nothing wrong with protecting national interests. There is nothing wrong with expecting immigrants to obey the law.     But there is a fundamental difference between protecting a country's laws and dehumanising the people who live within its borders.     That distinction matters.     South Africa has a right to protect its borders, but not to abandon humanity     South Africa is a sovereign nation.     It has the right to determine who enters the country, who resides there, who works there and who qualifies for citizenship.     Illegal immigration is a legitimate policy concern. Crime is a legitimate security concern. Pressure on housing, healthcare, education and employment is a legitimate concern. Fraud involving immigration or identity documents is a legitimate matter for law enforcement.     These issues should not be dismissed simply because foreigners are involved.     But neither should legitimate concerns become an excuse for collective blame.  

    A government must enforce immigration laws through lawful institutions, not through vigilantism. Citizens should not be encouraged to become immigration officers, police officers or courts of their own.     That is why President Cyril Ramaphosa's June 2026 position is important. He stressed that immigration enforcement belongs to authorised government institutions and rejected xenophobia, racism, Afrophobia and other forms of intolerance. South Africa's Inter-Ministerial Committee on Migration has similarly stated that violence and intimidation against foreign nationals have no place in a constitutional democracy founded on Ubuntu.     The principle is straightforward: Enforce the law, but do not abandon humanity.     The difficulty is ensuring that this principle is reflected not only in official statements but also in everyday reality.       When Ubuntu is tested     South Africa has experienced repeated tensions over immigration and the presence of migrants from other African countries.     There have been protests against undocumented migrants. There have been campaigns demanding restrictions on foreigners' access to public services. There have been incidents of intimidation and violence. Groups such as Operation Dudula have become prominent in campaigns focused on immigration and the presence of foreign nationals.     These developments deserve serious attention, but they also require careful analysis.     It would be unfair to describe an entire country or its people by the actions of particular individuals or groups.     At the same time, it would be equally wrong to pretend that xenophobia does not exist simply because millions of South Africans reject it.     In August 2025, the United Nations in South Africa warned about the scapegoating of migrants and the growing use of anti-foreigner narratives. In November 2025, the South African High Court also issued an interdict against Operation Dudula in relation to conduct including demanding identification from private individuals and other unlawful activities.     More recently, in July 2026, Nigeria raised concerns with South Africa over recurring xenophobic and Afrophobic attacks affecting Nigerians and other African migrants.     These developments should concern Africans, not because South Africa is uniquely hostile to foreigners, but because South Africa occupies a particularly important place in Africa's conversation about human rights, democracy, reconciliation and African solidarity.     With that influence comes responsibility.     South Africa should not be judged by its worst citizens, but government must be judged by how it responds     There is an important distinction here.     It would be wrong to say: “South Africans are xenophobic.”     They are not.     Many South Africans have stood against xenophobia. Many work with, trade with, employ, live alongside and form families with people from other African countries.     South Africa has also provided refuge and opportunities to migrants from across the continent.     The challenge, therefore, is not to condemn South Africans collectively.     The challenge is to ask whether institutions are doing enough to prevent legitimate public frustration from becoming hatred of foreigners.     People have genuine concerns about unemployment.     They have concerns about crime.     They have concerns about public services.     They have concerns about illegal mining, trafficking, corruption and irregular migration.     Those concerns deserve answers.     But when frustration is redirected towards migrants, a dangerous thing happens.     The difficult work of fixing broken systems is replaced by the easier politics of finding someone to blame.     The foreigner cannot become the convenient explanation for every failure     When a hospital is overcrowded, it is understandable for people to ask whether population pressures are contributing to the problem.     But they should also ask: How adequately is the health system being funded and managed?     When young people cannot find jobs, the debate should not stop at: “Foreigners are taking our jobs.”     We should also ask: What is happening to economic growth, industrial development, skills training and job creation?     When crime increases, we should identify and prosecute criminals.     When immigration documents are fraudulently obtained, investigators should ask: Who created, approved, processed or facilitated the fraudulent documents?     And when government systems fail, the system itself must be examined.     This is not about protecting foreigners from legitimate scrutiny.     It is about ensuring that the right problem is being confronted.     Blaming an entire nationality for the actions of individuals is not justice.     It is scapegoating.     And then there is Chidimma     Perhaps no recent story has brought questions of nationality, identity, belonging and African solidarity into sharper focus than the case of Chidimma Adetshina.     Chidimma was born in South Africa in 2001 to a Nigerian father and a Mozambican-born mother. She grew up in South Africa and, according to her court affidavit, was documented by South African authorities and issued South African identity and travel documents.     In 2024, her participation in the Miss South Africa competition became the centre of a heated national debate over her nationality and family documentation. The controversy became so intense that she eventually withdrew from the competition.     She subsequently represented Nigeria at Miss Universe Nigeria, won the title and went on to become first runner-up at Miss Universe.     Her story could easily have ended as an extraordinary beauty-pageant journey.     It did not.     She is now at the centre of another debate, this time involving citizenship, immigration status, documentation and her right to remain in South Africa.     That makes her story much bigger than a beauty pageant.     It touches a question that many Africans may find difficult to answer: What does it mean to belong?     The legal questions must be separated from the human questions     This is where caution is essential.     There are serious allegations concerning the circumstances surrounding the documentation of Chidimma's mother and the registration of Chidimma's identity. South African authorities have maintained that irregularities and alleged fraud affected the documentation underlying her status. Her mother, Anabela Rungo, has faced criminal proceedings concerning identity and immigration matters.     Those allegations should neither be ignored nor treated as established facts before the courts determine the relevant issues.     If fraud was committed, the person responsible should answer for it.     If public officials were involved, they should also answer for their actions.     If documents were unlawfully obtained, the law should investigate.     No one should be above the law because they are famous.     But there is another question that cannot simply disappear beneath the legal arguments: What responsibility does a child have for an alleged act committed by an adult before or around the time of her birth?     That is the human question.     Chidimma has argued that she was not even alive when the alleged irregularities involving her mother's status occurred. She has also argued that South Africa is the only home she has known and that she should not bear the consequences of alleged wrongdoing she did not commit.     The state disputes the legal basis for her continued stay.     Ultimately, the courts must determine the law.     But society is entitled to ask what justice should look like from a human perspective.     A child does not choose the circumstances of her birth     Imagine being born into a family whose documentation is later questioned.     You did not choose your parents.     You did not prepare the documents.     You did not make the application.     You did not deceive an immigration official.     You did not register yourself at birth.     You simply entered the world.     Years later, however, you find yourself at the centre of a dispute about documents and citizenship.     What should happen to you?     This is not only Chidimma's question.     Across Africa, children are born into complicated circumstances involving migration, mixed nationalities, refugee status, undocumented parents and administrative errors.     Some grow up between countries.     Some have parents from different nationalities.     Some have never lived in the country of their parents' citizenship.     Some have stronger emotional, cultural and social ties to the country where they were born than to the country whose passport they eventually hold.     That raises a difficult question for governments everywhere: When administrative or legal problems arise, how do we protect the rights and dignity of the child while resolving the underlying dispute?     Chidimma's case is not an argument against immigration law     This distinction should be made very clearly.     One can support South Africa's right to enforce immigration law and still believe that Chidimma should receive fair, humane and proportionate treatment.     Those positions are not contradictory.     They are, in fact, compatible with the rule of law.     South African authorities are pursuing her deportation after declaring her a prohibited person, while she is challenging the decision through the courts. Her legal representatives have argued that South Africa is the only home she has known, while the state has relied on its position concerning her Nigerian citizenship and her legal status in South Africa.     The legal process remains ongoing.     That is why the public conversation should resist the temptation to declare a final verdict before the courts have done so.     There are two questions: What does South African law say about her status?     And: How should a human being be treated while that question is being determined?     The first belongs primarily to the courts.     The second belongs to all of us.     When the crowd says, “Go home”     This is where the Ubuntu question becomes particularly uncomfortable.     Reports have emerged of people confronting Chidimma outside court and telling her to return to Nigeria.     Whatever one's opinion about her legal status, public intimidation should concern anyone who believes in the rule of law.     A courtroom exists precisely because society has chosen to settle disputes through evidence, legal arguments and judicial decisions.     Not through shouting crowds.     Not through intimidation.     Not through nationality-based insults.     Not through people deciding for themselves who belongs.     If Chidimma has violated South African immigration law, let the evidence establish it.     If she has a legal right to remain, let the courts establish that.     But the crowd cannot become the court.     And disagreement over legal status should never erase someone's humanity.     Could Ubuntu become a convenient slogan?     This is perhaps the most uncomfortable question in this entire discussion.     A moral philosophy can be reduced to a slogan.     A slogan can become branding.     Branding can become political language.     And political language can eventually become empty if it is not reflected in conduct.     Ubuntu itself is not a scam.     But people can misuse Ubuntu.     The same way democracy can be invoked by undemocratic governments, justice can be spoken about by unjust people, and patriotism can be used to justify hostility, Ubuntu can also be celebrated publicly while being neglected privately.     If leaders invoke Ubuntu while tolerating the dehumanisation of African migrants, people are entitled to ask whether the word is being used merely for appearance.     If organisations use Ubuntu to project an image of African solidarity while exploiting vulnerable people, then the word becomes branding rather than principle.     And if ordinary people say: “I am because we are”     but quietly add: “provided you are one of us,”     then the meaning has already been compromised.     The problem, therefore, is not Ubuntu.     The problem is hypocrisy.     Ubuntu is not a passport     Perhaps this is the most important lesson.     Ubuntu does not ask first: “Which passport do you carry?”     It asks: “How do you treat another human being?”     A Nigerian can practise Ubuntu.     A South African can practise Ubuntu.     A Ghanaian can practise Ubuntu.     A Kenyan can practise Ubuntu.     A Mozambican can practise Ubuntu.     And indeed, anyone, anywhere, can embrace the principle of shared humanity.     Its roots may be deeply associated with Southern Africa, but its message is universal.     That is precisely why South Africa has an opportunity to demonstrate something important to the world: Strong borders and strong humanity do not have to be opposites.     A country can enforce immigration laws without turning migrants into enemies.     It can investigate fraud without assuming collective guilt.     It can protect its citizens without dehumanising foreigners.     It can confront crime without blaming nationality.     It can manage limited public resources without abandoning human dignity.     That would be Ubuntu in practice.     Africa's borders should not erase Africa's humanity     There is another irony that we should not ignore.     Africa's modern political borders largely emerged from colonial history. Communities that had shared languages, cultures, ancestry, trade routes and social relationships for generations were divided among different territories.     Today, a person can cross a line on a map and suddenly become a foreigner.     The Nigerian who enters Cameroon does not become less African.     The Ghanaian in Nigeria does not become less African.     The Zimbabwean in South Africa does not become less African.     The Mozambican in South Africa does not become less African.     And the South African living in Nigeria does not become less African.     Nationality matters.     Citizenship matters.     Sovereignty matters.     But African humanity is older than African passports.     That is why xenophobia presents such a profound contradiction to the idea of African solidarity.     South Africans deserve to be heard too     A fair article must also acknowledge the other side.     South Africans who raise concerns about unemployment, crime, pressure on public services, illegal immigration, trafficking, corruption or illegal mining should not automatically be labelled xenophobic.     Their concerns may be genuine.     Indeed, governments that ignore legitimate grievances create fertile ground for populism.     The answer should not be: “You have no right to complain.”     It should be: “Your concerns are legitimate, but another human being is not necessarily the cause of your problem.”     That is a much more difficult conversation, but it is also a more honest one.     Government must address the underlying problems while preventing those problems from being converted into hatred against entire nationalities.     The real test of Ubuntu begins where convenience ends     It is easy to speak about humanity when everyone around us looks, sounds and thinks like us.     The real test comes when the stranger arrives.     When the migrant competes for a job.     When a foreigner becomes our neighbour.     When someone with another accent needs medical care.     When someone with another passport needs protection.     When an unpopular person stands before a court.     When a person is accused of wrongdoing but has not yet been convicted.     That is where Ubuntu becomes real.     Because Ubuntu is not tested by how we treat those we love.     It is tested by how we treat those whose presence makes us uncomfortable.     Chidimma's story should not become Nigeria versus South Africa     That would be another tragedy.     Nigeria should not use Chidimma's experience as a reason to condemn South Africans collectively.     South Africans should not use Chidimma's nationality as a reason to condemn Nigerians collectively.     Africa has enough divisions already.     We do not need another nationality war.     What we need is a serious conversation about:   Citizenship.   Migration.   Identity.   Human dignity.   Children's rights.   Government accountability.   African solidarity.   Xenophobia.   And ultimately: What does it mean to be human?     Perhaps Chidimma's greatest significance is not the crown     Chidimma has won titles.     She has represented Nigeria on an international stage.     She became first runner-up at Miss Universe.     But perhaps the most important part of her story is not the crown.     It is the question her experience has placed before Africa: Can a person belong to more than one place?     Can someone be Nigerian and have a profound South African identity?     Can someone be culturally connected to one country while holding legal status in another?     Can a child inherit multiple identities without being forced to choose one?     Can African countries protect their sovereignty while recognising the deep connections that exist between African peoples?     These are not merely Chidimma's questions.     They are African questions.     Who exactly is included in “we”?     If Ubuntu says: “I am because we are,”     then there is an important question hiding inside the word we.     Who is included?     Citizens?     Ethnic groups?     People born in the country?     People with the right documents?     People who speak the dominant language?     People whose parents were born there?     Or does we ultimately refer to the wider human community?     The answer determines whether Ubuntu remains a narrow cultural expression or fulfils its deeper promise as a philosophy of shared humanity.     If another African's dignity matters only when that African has the right passport, then Ubuntu has become conditional.     And conditional humanity is a contradiction in terms.     The African contradiction     We say: Africa is one.     Yet we sometimes build walls between Africans.     We say: We are brothers and sisters.     Yet sometimes nationality determines whether we see another African first as a human being or as a foreigner.     We say: Ubuntu.     Yet sometimes we forget its most basic lesson, that another person's humanity is connected to our own.     We celebrate Pan-Africanism.     Yet Afrophobia still exists.     We speak proudly of Africa's liberation history.     Yet we sometimes reproduce divisions that should have no place in a continent seeking greater unity.     This contradiction deserves honest examination.       What should Ubuntu look like in practice?     Ubuntu should mean that a government can enforce immigration law without hatred.     It should mean that police protect migrants as well as citizens.     It should mean that criminals are prosecuted because they committed crimes, not because of their nationality.     It should mean that a child is not casually blamed for the alleged actions of an adult.     It should mean that public officials are held accountable when immigration systems fail.     It should mean that citizens can raise concerns about migration without becoming xenophobic.     It should mean that migrants obey the laws of their host country without becoming targets of mob justice.     It should mean that African governments protect their citizens abroad through diplomacy and lawful engagement.     And it should mean that when we say: “I am because we are,”     we actually behave as though another person's humanity matters to us.     So, is Ubuntu a byword or a way of life?     The answer will not be found in a dictionary.     It will be found in our behaviour.     Ubuntu is not demonstrated simply by wearing the word on a T-shirt.     It is not demonstrated by delivering a speech.     It is not demonstrated by organising a conference.     It is not demonstrated by placing the word in a policy document.     Ubuntu becomes real when power is exercised with humanity.     When the strong protect the vulnerable.     When a stranger is treated with dignity.     When justice is pursued without vengeance.     When government accepts responsibility for its own failures.     When society refuses to make an entire nationality a scapegoat.     And when we remember that another person's dignity does not diminish our own.     The final test of Ubuntu     South Africa does not need to surrender its sovereignty to demonstrate Ubuntu.     It does not need to open its borders without regulation.     It does not need to ignore illegal immigration.     It does not need to excuse crime.     It does not need to compromise national security.     What it must demonstrate is that law and humanity can coexist.     That is the real test.     And the Chidimma Adetshina case provides a powerful lens through which to examine that test.     Let the courts determine her legal status.     Let evidence determine whether wrongdoing occurred.     Let those responsible for wrongdoing answer for their actions.     Let immigration laws be enforced.     But let us also remember the person behind the passport, the identity document, the immigration file and the courtroom proceedings.     Because a government can enforce the law and remain humane.     A citizen can defend national interests without hating foreigners.     A migrant can respect the laws of a host country while retaining dignity.     And an African can love his or her country without despising another African.     That is what Ubuntu should mean.     If Ubuntu is real, this is its moment     Perhaps the greatest danger is not that Ubuntu is false.     The greater danger is that Ubuntu is true, but we have become more comfortable saying it than living it.     If Ubuntu is merely a word, it remains beautiful poetry.     If it is only a slogan, it can be used whenever convenient.     But if “I am because we are” is genuinely a moral principle, then it places a responsibility on all of us.     It tells governments that protecting borders does not require abandoning dignity.     It tells citizens that legitimate frustration does not justify xenophobia.     It tells migrants that living in another country comes with responsibilities as well as rights.     It tells African governments that their citizens abroad deserve protection.     And it reminds every one of us that strangers are not automatically enemies.     Our humanity is not diminished when we extend it to another person.     It is strengthened.     Perhaps that is the Ubuntu Africa needs today.     Not Ubuntu as a speech.     Not Ubuntu as branding.     Not Ubuntu as a diplomatic slogan.     Not Ubuntu as a convenient byword.     Ubuntu as a way of life.     Because when another Chidimma comes, when another African child finds herself caught between identity, borders, citizenship and bureaucracy, the first question should not simply be: “Which country does this child belong to?”     There should also be another question: “How do we protect this human being's dignity while the law is being resolved?”     That is not weakness.     That is not surrender.     That is Ubuntu.     And if we cannot practise it when doing so is difficult, perhaps we need to ask ourselves whether we truly understand the word at all.     SkyDNews Perspective   The Chidimma Adetshina saga should remain, first and foremost, a matter for the courts. South Africa has every right to enforce its immigration laws, protect its borders and demand compliance with its legal requirements. Its citizens also have every right to expect effective management of migration and public resources.     But lawful immigration enforcement should never become an excuse for xenophobia, intimidation or collective blame.     If Ubuntu means “I am because we are,” then the treatment of the stranger is part of the test of our own humanity.     The question, therefore, is no longer whether Ubuntu sounds beautiful.     The real question is whether we are prepared to live it.