I write this with a heavy heart, deeply shaken by the unfolding Mengo vs. Mbenenge tribunal currently underway in Johannesburg.
This case, which should be about justice and truth, has instead become a mirror reflecting the deeply ingrained societal hatred for women—and anyone who dares to speak out against abuse.
Today, as I watched Advocate Muzi Sikhakhane cross-examine Andiswa Mengo, I saw something that felt too familiar to survivors of gender-based violence (SGBV): the secondary victimization that occurs when victims are forced to relive their trauma in an environment designed to break them further.
Sikhakhane’s questioning, laden with intimidation tactics, was celebrated by the virtual audience in ways that left me speechless. The YouTube comment section accompanying the live stream was a cesspool of vitriol, where men and women alike reveled in Andiswa’s pain, ridiculing her as she courageously recounted her experiences.
It wasn’t just heartbreaking—it was terrifying.
As someone who has survived SGBV, watching this unfold felt like being dragged back into the darkness of my own experience. I could feel the weight of her fear, her exhaustion, and the crushing loneliness of being a woman who dares to speak out against someone powerful.
In Andiswa’s case, that “someone” is the Judge President of an entire province of the Eastern Cape—a man with influence, wealth, and connections that make him nearly untouchable.
The societal backlash against Andiswa is chilling. It is the kind of backlash that reinforces why so many victims choose silence over speaking out. It is the same backlash that emboldens abusers to continue their atrocities, knowing full well that society will protect them and vilify their victims.
Today, I saw comments calling Andiswa a liar, accusing her of ulterior motives, and mocking her emotional testimony. Some women joined the chorus of hatred, branding her with cruel names I won’t even repeat here.
Others mocked her tears, dismissing them as “crocodile tears,” as if pain and vulnerability are forbidden when you’re fighting for justice.
When it came out that Andiswa is a divorcee, it was like handing the mob a loaded weapon. “Of course, she’s lying,” they said. “She couldn’t even keep a marriage together.” This kind of misogyny—weaponizing a woman’s personal life against her—is nothing new.
It’s the same playbook society uses to discredit victims: question their character, pick apart their past, and demand they be the “perfect victim,” all while ignoring the actions of the accused.
What was perhaps most disturbing were the celebratory cheers when Advocate Sikhakhane began his cross-examination. The audience as they had already said, they had been waiting for this moment, eager to watch him “tear her apart.” And when he did, their applause was deafening.
They reveled in her suffering, finding entertainment in her trauma, as though her humanity had ceased to matter the moment she accused a powerful man.
This is not just a legal battle—it is a societal indictment. The comments I read today made it clear: many South Africans do not care about justice for victims. They care about preserving systems of power and patriarchy.
They care about protecting abusers, so long as those abusers are men of status, wealth, or influence.
Let me be clear: Andiswa Mengo is not alone. Her case is part of a broader pattern where victims of abuse are silenced, discredited, and ostracized for daring to demand accountability. South Africa has seen this before. Many women were failed by society long before they even began telling their stories of abuse.
They were failed in the same way Andiswa is being failed now. The same way countless other victims are failed every day.
To those celebrating Andiswa’s humiliation, I asked in the comments: would you say the same if it were your sister, your daughter, your mother? Would you mock their pain? Would you cheer as they were torn apart in a court of law? Or would you finally believe them, too late, when it becomes their name in the headlines?
To those asking why she didn’t leave or why she didn’t speak out sooner, let me offer a reality check. Survivors often feel trapped in situations where saying "no" is not enough, especially when the abuser holds significant power. Andiswa herself explained that, despite repeatedly refusing the Judge President’s advances, she felt compelled to respond to his texts to avoid potential retaliation. This is not consent—it is survival under coercion.
I posed this question in the comments section: “Does the child or anyone being sexually abused in the family or workplace, who does not speak out immediately as you expect, but keeps living under the same roof as uMalume who rapes her, or keeps attending family gatherings or going to work, prove that they are enjoying the abuse?”
No, it does not. Survivors navigate complex power dynamics that force them to endure—not because they want to, but because they fear the consequences of resistance.
Before I left the increasingly toxic comment section, I added this message:
“Remember Tshegofatso Pule’s uncle—Tumisang Katake? he was the defense attorney for Sandile Mantsoe, who killed and burned Karabo Mokoena in 2018. And in 2021, his dear niece, Tshegofatso herself was found hanging from a tree near Roodepoort, brutally murdered while she was eight months pregnant, a murder ochestrated by her boyfriend Ntuthuko Shoba. Now let that sink in.
So, as you celebrate the victimization of yet another victim/survivor, remember this: kusengenzeka lemini iyeza nakuwe (there's a high possibility your day is coming too). Maybe then you’ll understand the importance of believing women or anyone, for that matter, who comes forward to say, ‘Something bad happened to me.’ Maybe then, you won’t have the energy defend those accused nor to celebrate Muzi Sikhakhane’s tactics.”
Advocate Sikhakhane is doing his job, yes. But it’s the way he’s doing it—and the societal applause for his tactics—that speaks to the deeper issue. This is not just cross-examination; it is secondary victimization. It is forcing a victim to relive her trauma in excruciating detail while being met with scorn, disbelief, and ridicule.
The way we treat victims in courtrooms, online spaces, and our communities has to change. We need to understand that speaking out is not easy—it is an act of immense courage.
And when victims like Andiswa come forward, they do so not just for themselves but for others who have been silenced by fear.
Today, I felt drained, heartbroken, and angry. But I also felt resolute. Andiswa’s fight is not hers alone—it is all of ours. As prayer warriors, activists, and allies, we must rally around her and others like her. Let us pray for Andiswa, for her strength, her safety, and her peace of mind.
Let us ask our ancestors to stand in that room where she is being torn down and shield her from harm. Let us speak out against the culture of silence and complicity that enables abuse to thrive.
To those who continue to mock and disbelieve victims, I say this: the wheel does turn. One day, you or someone you love may need the compassion and solidarity you now refuse to show. Let that sink in, again.
To Andiswa, and to every victim who has spoken out or is still gathering the courage to do so, I say this: I believe you.
I stand with you. And I will continue to fight for a world where your voice is heard, your truth is believed, and your justice is served.
This is not just about one tribunal hearing. It’s about dismantling a system that protects perpetrators, silences victims, and celebrates cruelty. It’s about building a society where human rights are upheld and every survivor’s voice matters.
Let’s do better, South Africa. Let’s do better, for Andiswa and for us all.
Qina Andiswa, ungagungqi, sime nawe Nkosikazi.
