How To Adapt And Not Fall Apart Right Now

What growing up in post-apartheid South Africa taught me about resilience.

Trigger warning: This post includes references to sexual violence, HIV/AIDS, and violent crime—please read with care.

I moved to South Africa in 1998—four years after apartheid officially ended.

I grew up in the wake of one of the most brutal and institutionalized systems of racism ever created. The government was in transition. Infrastructure was fractured. And as the African National Congress began taking power, the country entered a strange new era—somewhere between a warped meritocracy and late-stage capitalism.

I was the first Black girl in my grade at school.

I was an immigrant—Nigerian by blood, American by birth, not South African in any way that gave me cover. That meant xenophobia. That meant not quite belonging. And over the years, as more people from other parts of Africa moved to South Africa, that tension only deepened. There was fear. Suspicion. A sense that outsiders were taking opportunity from people who had only just begun to access it themselves.

Coming of age in South Africa—dating and sex felt precarious.

I was afraid of being raped and contracting HIV. Women who looked like me bore the brunt of the epidemic. Even with the privilege I carried—access to private healthcare and a father in medicine—I never felt safe. As an HIV/AIDS specialist, he understood the reality better than most: 1 in 5 young Black women were already HIV-positive. He was close to cases from every walk of life, including friends of ours who were living with the virus. I worked in his clinic on weekends and during school breaks. I saw it all firsthand—entire communities hollowed out, funerals a weekend norm. In 2004 more than 55,000 rapes were reported that year—and experts believe the true number may have been closer to half a million.

I was afraid to drive after dark. When you learned to drive in Durban—the seaside town I lived in you learned defensive tactics: Don’t stop at red lights after sunset. Smash-and-grab film on your car windows wasn’t optional—it was survival. Over 16,000 hijackings in 1998 alone.

I was afraid our home would be broken into and that we might be harmed. That fear was justified. In 2000 alone, over 300,000 homes were broken into in South Africa, and nearly 9,000 of those invasions turned violent. Home invasions were so common they shaped the architecture: electric fences, huge gates, panic buttons, armed response signs on every gate. That same year, South Africa recorded approximately 49.8 murders per 100,000 people, making it one of the most dangerous countries in the world.

It was an atmosphere of violence.

Ambient.

In the air.

In the collective nervous system.

We learned to live with a background hum of threat.

And yet—these were some of the most vibrant and formative years of my life.