On June 16, The New York Times reported that President Donald Trump is contemplating expanding his travel ban to encompass up to 36 additional countries, predominantly in Africa, which includes Zimbabwe.
Just twelve days earlier, Trump had initiated a proclamation inhibiting entry for citizens from twelve nations. Among these, seven are African nations, namely Chad, Congo Republic, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Libya, Somalia, and Sudan.
Moreover, he imposed partial travel limitations on individuals from Burundi, Cuba, Laos, Sierra Leone, Togo, Turkmenistan, and Venezuela, preventing citizens from these countries from permanently immigrating to the US or obtaining tourist and student visas.
This development marks a continuation of Trump’s campaign promises, signaling a robust approach to immigration reform.
Personally, I now face the unprecedented potential of being barred from visiting the United States—a nation considered home by many of my family and friends.
For instance, my cousin, Dr. Anna Mhaka, practised medicine in the US after completing her studies there, while Spencer Matare, a former classmate, has spent over two decades in Indianapolis and is now a US citizen.
Despite the Trump administration’s harsh rhetoric regarding migrants—both lawful and undocumented—both Anna and Spencer represent industrious, law-abiding contributors to US society.
I realize many Africans aspire to emulate their journeys and feel increasingly anxious about the escalating barriers to migration established by Trump.
Contrarily, my perspective diverges from theirs. Since my graduation from the University of Cape Town in 1997, I have never encountered a desire to travel to America, let alone reside there.
This sentiment may render me somewhat of an outlier in my community.
I hail from an era and a background that idealized the West, portrayed through the assimilated lens of an Anglicized upbringing. This yearning was pervasive, not only within my neighborhood but throughout Africa, impacted by the lingering effects of colonial legacies from French, Portuguese, Spanish, and British forces. However, this idealization was never my truth.
On International Migrants Day, December 18, 2024, Afrobarometer unveiled a report derived from data collected across 24 African nations, revealing that 49 percent of Africans have contemplated emigrating, predominantly towards North America and Europe, although a significant fraction favors relocating within Africa.
Among the reasons for their desire to emigrate, 49 percent cited a pursuit of enhanced job opportunities, while 29 percent pointed to poverty and economic hardship.
Many Africans maintain a belief in the so-called “American dream” or its European alternative, and I have no resentment towards them for holding these aspirations. Countless individuals from Africa have thrived in various fields within the US, including business, academia, and sports.
Dikembe Mutombo, a former NBA star from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, exemplifies this success. During his lifetime, Mutombo contributed $15 million to establish the Biamba Marie Mutombo Hospital in Kinshasa—a $29 million medical and research facility created in memory of his mother, who died in 1997 due to inadequate care.
This heartbreaking, yet familiar, narrative showcases the ingrained socioeconomic struggles that prevail across Africa—conditions compelling many to seek better opportunities abroad: failing healthcare systems, persistent corruption, unemployment, and poverty.
In stark contrast, the US appears to many as a bastion of refuge.
According to a January 2022 report by the Pew Research Center, Black immigrants from Africa constitute a significant proportion of the most recent arrivals in the US: Three-quarters of this demographic arrived in 2000 or later, with 43 percent migrating between 2010 and 2019.
While the Caribbean region remains the largest source of immigrants, Africa has been a major contributor to recent growth. Between 2000 and 2019, the number of Black African immigrants surged by 246 percent, increasing from approximately 600,000 to two million. Today, individuals of African descent represent 42 percent of the US’s foreign-born Black population, a substantial rise from 23 percent in 2000.
My initial reaction to Trump’s proposed visa restrictions was one of deep disdain. I couldn’t help but remember his derogatory comment regarding “shithole countries” made on January 11, 2018—a clear instance of racial profiling aimed at African nations.
However, upon deeper reflection, I have started to perceive his exclusionary policies in a different light.
On January 20, he halted US aid to Africa and now appears poised to deny many of us visas from nations like Burkina Faso, Cameroon, and Ivory Coast.
Inadvertently, Trump’s actions may be pushing African nations towards a greater degree of self-sufficiency—prompting us to acknowledge and address the unmet needs of our restless populace.
Yet, he is not the sole advocate of “anti-African” rhetoric. The anti-immigration narrative has intensified across the US political landscape. Securing even a student visa has become increasingly challenging for Africans. In 2023, sub-Saharan African nations recorded the highest US visa rejection rates—averaging 57 percent. Excluding Southern Africa, where the refusal rate is about 19 percent, rejection rates in other regions soared to 61 percent.
These diminished approval rates are irrelevant to me as I have no intention of visiting or settling in the United States.
My wariness of stepping foot in what is often termed the “land of the free” is driven by a profound concern: the fear of becoming yet another casualty of American police brutality—an all-too-realistic fate, as evidenced by the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis on May 25, 2020.
I understand that Black individuals—whether African or otherwise—are frequently subjected to racism, violence, and discrimination in the US, regardless of their immigration status.
Nevertheless, the pervasive issue of racially charged police violence is just one of the many reasons I opt to remain distant.
Moreover, many Americans grapple with similar entrenched challenges that afflict many Africans. According to the West Health-Gallup healthcare indices, roughly 29 million adults in the US struggle to access affordable healthcare—a problem as familiar in Kinshasa as it is in several parts of America.
As of 2023, the US Census Bureau reported that 36.8 million Americans live in poverty.
Despite the glamorous facade constructed by Hollywood, the US is far from a utopia.
While individuals like Anna and Spencer have thrived there, for the majority of Africans, the path to achieving the “American dream” is obstructed.
Instead, they must seek futures either within their own nations or across other parts of Africa.
A significant transformation is imperative.
Consider China, which managed to achieve transformative economic reforms in a mere 40 years.
Africa, with its substantial mineral wealth and a youthful, educated populace, possesses the potential for similar change. Focusing on domestic processing of raw materials could catalyze industrial growth, job creation, and an increase in gross domestic product.
However, peace and good governance must precede such changes.
Additionally, our investment priorities must transform. Rather than allocating resources predominantly towards defense and security, African governments should prioritize funding in artificial intelligence, healthcare, and scientific research.
As Africans, we must cease defining our identities based on Western aid, endorsement, or guidance.
Whatever the outcome may be, I will commit myself to my motherland.
Keep your America, Mr. Trump— for we shall embrace and nurture our Africa.
image source from：aljazeera
