Kananelo Boloetse
As I sit down to write this opinion, my cousin whom I have not seen in more than a decade has returned to his family home in Ha Ramasabata, Mafeteng. My cousin, who has been living in Bloemfontein, South Africa, since he was a teenager, has found his way back to Lesotho after years of being in and out of prison in the foreign land.
His arrival, however, is far from a joyous homecoming.
The house he returned to, abandoned for over ten years, was likely overrun by spiders, rats, and other pests. His parents’ once vibrant home is now a dilapidated shell, a sad reflection of the lives they left behind.
His youngest brother is still serving time in a Bloemfontein prison, with hopes of release soon, while their eldest brother tragically passed away in 2007 at the tender age of 27.
Their father, my father’s younger brother, died in the late 1980s while working in the South African mines, and their mother followed in 1996, while trying to make ends meet in Johannesburg’s Eldorado Park.
Orphaned at a young age, my cousins had to fend for themselves. None of them completed primary school, a fact that left them with few opportunities in life.
The cousin who has now returned, left home in the early 2000s for Bloemfontein, where he managed to improve his circumstances, even if marginally, bringing groceries home during his visits. But his return now suggests a life of hardship, possibly deportation, and an uncertain future in a place that no longer feels like home.
The eldest also tried his luck in Bloemfontein but soon returned to Mafeteng, where he hustled daily to provide for himself and the youngest sibling until when he tragically passed away in 2007.
After his death, the youngest dropped out of school and followed the path to Bloemfontein. Though he visited home regularly, he eventually got involved in criminal activities, leading to his arrest and conviction.
In Lesotho, we often mock South Africans, particularly their first democratically elected President Nelson Mandela, as a sell-out who left his people with nothing but motivational quotes while the land and wealth remained in the hands of a few white elites.
We often pride ourselves on the fact that, unlike many South Africans, we own our land. According to Section 107 of our Constitution, all land in Lesotho is vested in the Basotho Nation, and Section 108(1) further stipulates that the power to allocate this land is vested in the King in trust for the Basotho Nation.
The Land Act of 2010 reinforces this, declaring that land in Lesotho is vested in the Basotho Nation and held in trust by the King. No one, apart from the Head of State, can hold title to land except as provided under this Act.
This legal framework underscores a significant distinction between us and our neighbours, South Africans—we own our land, and with it, the rich mineral reserves that lie beneath.
Yet, despite this ownership, the reality for many Basotho is grim.
The World Food Program’s Lesotho Annual Country Report 2023, published on April 2, 2024, reveals that Lesotho remains one of the most unequal countries globally.
Nearly half of the population, 49.7 percent, lives below the food poverty line, with over 80 percent of the poor residing in rural areas. Children are particularly affected, with 65 percent classified as multi-dimensionally poor and over a quarter being orphans.
On July 12, 2024, Prime Minister Ntsokoane Samuel Matekane declared a national state of disaster due to severe food insecurity, brought on by the most severe El Niño-induced drought in a century.
This disaster has left 700,000 Basotho—nearly one-third of the population—facing severe food insecurity, a staggering increase from 582,000 just a year prior.
My cousin’s unexpected return to Lesotho means he wasn’t initially included in the alarming statistics of those facing food insecurity. However, if he chooses to stay, he will soon become part of those numbers.
I can’t help but wonder if he even has a birth certificate, national identity card, or passport—essential documents to prove his citizenship in Lesotho.
He’s likely never bothered to obtain these documents, possibly because he never saw their value. For him, life has always been about hustling in South Africa, where paperwork seemed irrelevant to his daily survival.
He, like many others, chose to leave the land he was born on for a life in Bloemfontein, a city in a country we often mock for its lack of land ownership. For him, the prospects of a better life in a foreign land outweighed the struggles of eking out an existence in Mafeteng.
This story of my cousin is not unique.
It reflects a broader truth about the state of our nation. The laws that ensure Basotho own their land are a source of national pride, but they do little to alleviate the suffering of the people.
Vast tracts of land are meaningless if the political and economic conditions render them barren or inhospitable. When the land fails to provide, when governance fails to uplift, people will leave—seeking better opportunities, even in places where they must live as illegal migrant labourers.
Land ownership is vital, but it is not enough. Without sound governance, economic opportunities, and the political will to uplift the people, the land becomes a burden rather than a blessing.
My cousin’s return to a desolate home in Mafeteng is a poignant reminder that ownership without empowerment is a hollow victory. In the end, the land may belong to us, but what good is land when those who own it are forced to leave it behind?
It is a heartbreaking reality that underscores a deeper issue: the gap between possessing land and having the means to thrive on it.
Anyway, writing this opinion has brought into sharp focus the fact that nearly two months have passed since Prime Minister Matekane declareda national state of food insecurity disaster in response to the unprecedented El Niño-induced drought that has ravaged our country.
Yet, the nation still awaits a clear, coherent plan from the government on how it intends to address this disaster.
The silence and inaction are not only troubling but also a grave abdication of responsibility.
For obvious reasons—my intimate understanding of poverty, my lived experience—I am among those who have consistently advocated for the immediate implementation of food subsidies to provide relief to the most affected.
But our calls have been met with indifference, forcing us to confront the uncomfortable truth that the government has failed to prioritize the welfare of its people during one of the most critical periods in our nation’s history.
A declaration, no matter how solemn, does not feed a hungry child, nor does it comfort a family uncertain of where their next meal will come from. What our people need is action—swift, strategic, and substantial.
The government has a constitutional duty to protect and provide for its citizens, particularly in times of crisis. The failure to do so not only undermines the trust between the government and the governed but also endangers the lives of those it is sworn to serve.
The gravity of this situation cannot be overstated. As an individual whose cousin has just arrived from South Africa, I once again urge the government to implement immediate and effective measures to mitigate this disaster. The most vulnerable among us cannot afford further delays, nor can they subsist on promises.
It is time for the government to step forward with a comprehensive and transparent plan to address this crisis. I call on the Prime Minister and his administration to demonstrate true leadership by taking decisive action that prioritises the well-being of the people of Lesotho. The future of our nation depends on it.
In these times, we must remember that the legitimacy of any government is measured not by its words, but by its deeds. The people of Lesotho deserve nothing less.
