Weaponised poverty: The uncomfortable truth about South Africa's grant dependency and xenophobia

Around 26.5 million South Africans rely on some form of social grant — that's roughly four out of every ten people in a country of 64 million. On Freedom Day, protesters gathered at Delft Mall and in Blikkiesdorp, Delft, to demonstrate against the termination of the Covid-19 Social Relief of Distress Grant (SRDG) and to campaign for a basic income grant (BIG).

But columnist Zohra Teke says the country is ignoring a deeper problem: the grant system has been weaponised by politicians to keep poor black South Africans dependent. "The chickens have come home to roost," she writes.

Teke argues that for years, black voters were fed a "wit gevaar" (white danger) narrative — warned not to vote for the Democratic Alliance because the party would take away their grants. The result, she says, is a system where poverty has become a political tool. Grants keep core voters economically dependent, and no political party dares call for less dependency or removal of grants.

This dependency has created a cycle, Teke explains. For some, having more children means more child support grants, trapping families in poverty. Alongside this come high levels of stress, unemployment, alcoholism, violence, and hopelessness. Children are often left unsupervised while mothers work as domestic workers, raising other people's children. KwaZulu-Natal Police Commissioner General Nhlanhla Mkhwanazi recently told IOL: "Fix the issue of youth in communities — those left alone, wandering the streets, unsupervised, with no guidance — and we will fix crime and unemployment."

On the other side are African immigrants. They arrive desperate for a better life, carrying the burdens of families back home. Their mission is simple: work hard and send money home. There's no backup plan. No grant. No room for failure.

Durban businessman Steven Mabugana, whose textile business once turned over R17 million annually with 350 workers, told Teke: "One Malawian worker equals 10 South Africans." His business has now shut down due to xenophobia. "Of my 350 workers, 30 were Malawian. They were the engines of my business. But consistent threats, bullying and ongoing challenges finally forced us to close down."

Teke says the contrast is stark. Immigrants have no safety net — they must work or fail. Many locals, cushioned by grants and family support, can afford to be less reliable. She notes that hospitality employers often complain that local workers live far from workplaces, while foreign workers band together in communal residences close by, reducing costs and enabling night shifts.

Teke herself has hired young South Africans — teenage mothers with no experience, no confidence, little education. The hardest workers, she found, were those living independently or serving as primary breadwinners. Those living at home and supported by parents were sometimes less reliable.

But she stresses that none of this justifies xenophobia. The real problem, she argues, is the system that kept people poor through grant dependency. And while that can't excuse a poor work ethic in some, it's a reality politicians seldom discuss.

"South Africans are lazy! They don't want to work! They want everything for free!" — these accusations dominate debates around African immigration, Teke writes. But behind closed doors, many quietly repeat them: "South Africans don't want to work. They're entitled. Foreigners work harder. They're more educated."

Teke points out that with nearly 82% of the population being black, it's statistically expected that this demographic would account for the largest percentage of problematic staff simply through sheer numbers. The real issue, she says, is a cruel system that has politically weaponised poverty — and nobody's confronting it.