When the Oppressor Cries Foul: South Africa, Power, and the Global Game

“Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees… depriving the poor of their rights and withholding justice from the oppressed…”
— Isaiah 10:1–2

When I grew up, I heard all about Nelson Mandela—not in school, but on television. I watched as he was released from prison and later became the President of South Africa. It felt like a real-life Joseph story. I didn’t know the full history of South Africa back then, but I understood enough to know that white people had been oppressing Black people, and that the tables had finally turned.

Fast forward a few decades, and the story has become far more complicated.

President Cyril Ramaphosa has been in power since 2018, but his political roots stretch back to the anti-apartheid movement and his ties to the African National Congress (ANC), the same party that brought Mandela to power. Today, the ANC is no longer the beacon of liberation it once was. South Africa’s economy is faltering, youth unemployment is soaring, and a new generation known as the Born Frees are disillusioned with the party their parents once trusted.

At the same time, South Africa has grown distant from the United States and closer to global players like Russia and China. This shift has raised alarms in Washington. It places America in an awkward position, still posturing as a global power while losing influence across Africa to countries that are playing a much longer game.

I watched President Trump’s meeting with Ramaphosa and later his public condemnation of South Africa over the alleged killings of white farmers. On the surface, it looked like a defense of human rights. But if you listened closely, it sounded like something else: fear. Fear of losing control in a country where white South Africans, particularly Afrikaner farmers, still sit on land taken during colonization. Land that Black South Africans are now demanding back.

Yes, there have been murders. And yes, leaders like Julius Malema have stirred controversy with inflammatory rhetoric. But we cannot ignore the context. This is land that was stolen, hoarded, and protected by a system of apartheid that was only officially dismantled 30 years ago. The economic legacy of that system still shapes who eats and who starves. This is not a genocide. It is a reckoning.

I listened to a Triggernometry podcast hosted by Konstantin Kisin and Francis Foster, where a South African businessman, Rob Hersov, painted a very different picture of South Africa’s history. He claimed there were no Black people in the Cape in the 1600s when the Dutch first arrived. According to him, things only became complicated when Black tribes and white settlers clashed inland, especially after gold was discovered. He told this story with complete conviction—no shame, no acknowledgment of brutality, no reckoning with the cost of colonization. It was chilling to hear history sanitized in real time.

He said things were “going just fine” until 2008. In other words, until Black South Africans began to push harder for economic power, land reform, and accountability. He celebrated Mandela as a saint, but reminded listeners that he was once a “terrorist.” You could feel the fear creeping back in, the fear that Black anger might finally translate into Black ownership.

South Africa has also taken a strong public stance against Israel. The ANC government has accused Israel of genocide at the United Nations and filed a case at the International Court of Justice. On the world stage, they have positioned themselves as defenders of Palestinian rights. But behind the curtain, South Africa still provides coal to Israel, coal that helps power the very war machine being used in Gaza. The hypocrisy is staggering. It is a reminder that even those who claim to stand on moral high ground are often playing both sides when profits and power are involved.

South Africa is not alone in its contradictions. The same country that challenges genocide now fuels war. But that is the story of modern politics—righteous in speech, compromised in action.

And here is where I want to speak directly to my own community.

Many in the left-leaning Black community were shocked by Trump’s confrontational stance toward Ramaphosa. Just as they were shocked by what he tried to pull with Ukraine’s Zelensky. The default assumption was racism. That Trump had once again disrespected a Black leader on the world stage.

But I don’t think that is the full story.

This was not about race. This was about loyalty, minerals, and something far more futuristic: AI.

We are living in a new age of empire. In this age, minerals are the new oil. You cannot run high-performance data centers, build AI chips, or power green technologies without cobalt, lithium, platinum, and rare earth elements. Many of these are buried deep in the soil of Africa, especially in South Africa.

What I believe Trump was signaling that day was clear: fall in line or be replaced. Ramaphosa’s calm response did not show submission. It showed confidence. He didn’t flinch, and that might have been the most unsettling part of all. He knew the United States needed what South Africa holds. And maybe, for once, the leverage wasn't on America’s side.

Still, there is the coal.

Despite all the public condemnation of Israel’s actions in Gaza, South Africa continues to quietly supply coal to Israel. That gives me a sliver of hope. Not because I condone double-dealing, but because it tells me that even Ramaphosa understands who really holds the cards. Like Nigeria’s leaders, who speak out one way and deal another, he may eventually toe the line.

But I also have to wonder: is the United States miscalculating?

While white America keeps trying to broker influence through presidential pressure and economic threats, the only figure who could truly bridge this divide may be someone they keep sidelining: an African American man.

Not a symbolic figure. Not a polished technocrat in a DEI office. Someone who understands both the trauma and the opportunity of Africa. Someone who can walk into a room and speak the language of memory, pain, and shared possibility. A man with skin in the game and spirit in the soil.

As the next global order is built—not on bombs but on bandwidth—America would be wise to reconsider its envoys.

We are in the midst of a transition. A spiritual one. A political one. A technological one.

And if America doesn’t learn to speak to Africa with dignity, truth, and partnership, it will find itself on the outside of a new world being written without it.

________________________________________________________________

© 2025 Jacqueline Session Ausby. All rights reserved. This post and all original content published under DahTruth are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.