As an African, watching President Cyril Ramaphosa’s visit to the White House unfold was not only unsettling, it was humiliating. It was not my country’s president seated across from Donald Trump, but it felt like all of us were on trial. In that moment, Ramaphosa became a proxy for the continent. When he was cornered with conspiracy theories and political theatre, it wasn’t just South Africa that was diminished. It was the dignity of all Africans who believe in respectful diplomacy, facts over fear, and equal standing in global affairs.
The visit was supposed to be a conversation about trade, development, and cooperation between South Africa and the United States. Instead, it turned into a spectacle. Reports revealed that Trump presented Ramaphosa with sensationalist articles and video clips—some from far-right media—alleging a so-called “white genocide” in South Africa. He demanded to know what the South African government was doing about the “killing of white farmers.” This theory, widely discredited by experts and fact-checkers, has been used by white nationalist groups to stoke fear and reinforce racist narratives. Even U.S. intelligence officials and the State Department have confirmed there is no evidence of any such targeted campaign. Yet here it was, taking centre stage in what should have been a diplomatic meeting.
President Ramaphosa, ever composed, responded by defending South Africa’s democratic values and legal process. He explained that the government does not endorse any violence, and that land reform is being carried out under the law and with extensive consultation. “What you saw—the speeches that were made—that is not government policy. We have a multiparty democracy in South Africa that allows people to express themselves,” he said in a moment that was as clarifying as it was restrained. But the damage, in many ways, had already been done.
Why was Ramaphosa placed in such a position? Why was a head of state made to respond to myths and propaganda rather than discuss pressing regional and global issues? What does this say about how African leaders are treated in global power centres? As Africans, we must ask ourselves hard questions. When our presidents travel abroad, are they treated as equals, or as subjects of curiosity and suspicion? Why is it that falsehoods and conspiracy theories about Africa are so easily elevated to diplomatic talking points, while real crises—like the youth unemployment crisis, the climate emergency, or the debt burden—are often ignored?
It is particularly painful because the facts tell a very different story than the one Trump tried to paint. South Africa, like many African nations, does struggle with high rates of violent crime. But the vast majority of victims are Black South Africans, living in under-resourced communities. According to the South African Police Service, in the most recent crime statistics, Black South Africans continue to bear the brunt of violence and insecurity. The murder rate is alarmingly high, but it is not racially targeted in the way Trump insinuated. This is not a matter of opinion; it is a matter of fact.
The moment was a shameful one not because President Ramaphosa failed to respond with dignity—he did—but because the entire encounter revealed how far we still have to go in asserting our voice and our value on the global stage. That a world leader would ambush an African president with racist tropes and unverified news clippings, in the White House of all places, speaks volumes about the disregard for African leadership in some international circles. It reveals a troubling readiness to prioritize sensationalism over substance, and politics over partnership.
But this moment of humiliation can also be a catalyst for reflection and growth. Africans must begin to insist on a different kind of engagement with the world—one based on mutual respect, accurate information, and common interests. We must build stronger media institutions at home that can counter misinformation with credibility. We must train and equip our diplomats to be ready for every kind of ambush, not just the polite ones. And above all, we must support leaders who are willing to speak plainly and defend the truth, even when it is uncomfortable.
This episode also reveals the urgent need to reclaim our narrative. For too long, the African story has been told through the lens of others—often those who benefit from portraying us as chaotic, corrupt, or dangerous. It is time to tell our own stories, grounded in fact, history, and the real aspirations of our people. Africa is not perfect. Our countries face immense challenges—from poverty to political instability, from migration to inequality. But we are also rich in innovation, culture, resilience, and leadership. Those truths must be central to how we engage with the world.
There is no shame in confronting crime or reforming land ownership. These are issues any nation may grapple with. The shame lies in allowing others to weaponize those issues to shame us, to distract from our progress, or to silence our leaders. Ramaphosa may not have gone to Washington expecting to defend South Africa’s moral standing, but in that moment, he did—and he did so with a steadiness that should not go unnoticed.
Still, we cannot let this pass as just another awkward moment in diplomacy. It must serve as a lesson in preparedness, in narrative control, and in the importance of global respect. Africa has been here before—talked down to, misrepresented, sidelined. But we must not remain there. We have every right to expect more, to demand better, and to act with the confidence that our history, our contributions, and our future entitle us to.
Let this be the last time an African leader is ambushed in a foreign capital with lies and distortions. Let it be the last time our continent is reduced to a caricature to serve someone else’s domestic agenda. We are not guests at the global table—we are co-architects of the future. And the world will learn to treat us that way, or risk being left behind.
As an African, watching President Cyril Ramaphosa’s visit to the White House unfold was not only unsettling, it was humiliating. It was not my country’s president seated across from Donald Trump, but it felt like all of us were on trial. In that moment, Ramaphosa became a proxy for the continent. When he was cornered with conspiracy theories and political theatre, it wasn’t just South Africa that was diminished. It was the dignity of all Africans who believe in respectful diplomacy, facts over fear, and equal standing in global affairs.
The visit was supposed to be a conversation about trade, development, and cooperation between South Africa and the United States. Instead, it turned into a spectacle. Reports revealed that Trump presented Ramaphosa with sensationalist articles and video clips—some from far-right media—alleging a so-called “white genocide” in South Africa. He demanded to know what the South African government was doing about the “killing of white farmers.” This theory, widely discredited by experts and fact-checkers, has been used by white nationalist groups to stoke fear and reinforce racist narratives. Even U.S. intelligence officials and the State Department have confirmed there is no evidence of any such targeted campaign. Yet here it was, taking center stage in what should have been a diplomatic meeting.
President Ramaphosa, ever composed, responded by defending South Africa’s democratic values and legal process. He explained that the government does not endorse any violence, and that land reform is being carried out under the law and with extensive consultation. “What you saw—the speeches that were made—that is not government policy. We have a multiparty democracy in South Africa that allows people to express themselves,” he said in a moment that was as clarifying as it was restrained. But the damage, in many ways, had already been done.
Why was Ramaphosa placed in such a position? Why was a head of state made to respond to myths and propaganda rather than discuss pressing regional and global issues? What does this say about how African leaders are treated in global power centers? As Africans, we must ask ourselves hard questions. When our presidents travel abroad, are they treated as equals, or as subjects of curiosity and suspicion? Why is it that falsehoods and conspiracy theories about Africa are so easily elevated to diplomatic talking points, while real crises—like the youth unemployment crisis, the climate emergency, or the debt burden—are often ignored?
It is particularly painful because the facts tell a very different story than the one Trump tried to paint. South Africa, like many African nations, does struggle with high rates of violent crime. But the vast majority of victims are Black South Africans, living in under-resourced communities. According to the South African Police Service, in the most recent crime statistics, Black South Africans continue to bear the brunt of violence and insecurity. The murder rate is alarmingly high, but it is not racially targeted in the way Trump insinuated. This is not a matter of opinion; it is a matter of fact.
The moment was a shameful one not because President Ramaphosa failed to respond with dignity—he did—but because the entire encounter revealed how far we still have to go in asserting our voice and our value on the global stage. That a world leader would ambush an African president with racist tropes and unverified news clippings, in the White House of all places, speaks volumes about the disregard for African leadership in some international circles. It reveals a troubling readiness to prioritize sensationalism over substance, and politics over partnership.
But this moment of humiliation can also be a catalyst for reflection and growth. Africans must begin to insist on a different kind of engagement with the world—one based on mutual respect, accurate information, and common interests. We must build stronger media institutions at home that can counter misinformation with credibility. We must train and equip our diplomats to be ready for every kind of ambush, not just the polite ones. And above all, we must support leaders who are willing to speak plainly and defend the truth, even when it is uncomfortable.
This episode also reveals the urgent need to reclaim our narrative. For too long, the African story has been told through the lens of others—often those who benefit from portraying us as chaotic, corrupt, or dangerous. It is time to tell our own stories, grounded in fact, history, and the real aspirations of our people. Africa is not perfect. Our countries face immense challenges—from poverty to political instability, from migration to inequality. But we are also rich in innovation, culture, resilience, and leadership. Those truths must be central to how we engage with the world.
There is no shame in confronting crime or reforming land ownership. These are issues any nation may grapple with. The shame lies in allowing others to weaponize those issues to shame us, to distract from our progress, or to silence our leaders. Ramaphosa may not have gone to Washington expecting to defend South Africa’s moral standing, but in that moment, he did—and he did so with a steadiness that should not go unnoticed.
Still, we cannot let this pass as just another awkward moment in diplomacy. It must serve as a lesson in preparedness, in narrative control, and in the importance of global respect. Africa has been here before—talked down to, misrepresented, sidelined. But we must not remain there. We have every right to expect more, to demand better, and to act with the confidence that our history, our contributions, and our future entitle us to.
Let this be the last time an African leader is ambushed in a foreign capital with lies and distortions. Let it be the last time our continent is reduced to a caricature to serve someone else’s domestic agenda. We are not guests at the global table—we are co-architects of the future. And the world will learn to treat us that way, or risk being left behind.
