Let’s talk about it, South Africa. Over the weekend, Chris Brown performed at FNB Stadium, and when I say that place was packed, I mean it was giving World Cup Final 2010 energy. Fans were screaming, dancing, and belting out every lyric like they were auditioning for "The X Factor." It was one of the biggest audiences Chris Brown has ever performed for. But here’s the thing: this is Chris Brown—a globally known artist and a man with a very public history of gender-based violence (GBV).
Now, let’s pause. South Africa has some of the highest GBV rates in the world. Every week, we see headlines about femicide, intimate partner violence, and the failings of our justice system to protect women. So the question is: what does it mean for a nation battling this epidemic to fill a stadium for an artist with this kind of history?
For those who might need a refresher: In 2009, Chris Brown was convicted for assaulting his then-girlfriend, Rihanna, in a case that shocked the world. Pictures of her bruised face went viral, and his career took a massive hit. But here’s the thing: he didn’t stay canceled. Over the years, his fan base has remained loyal, and his career continues to thrive, particularly here in South Africa, where fans seem to love him even more.
Which brings us to the uncomfortable question: are we, as a society, too quick to forgive GBV perpetrators when they’re talented, famous, and entertaining?
Let’s be real: if Chris Brown can pull a full house, what’s stopping someone like R. Kelly or P. Diddy from doing the same? Yes, R. Kelly has been convicted of horrific crimes, but it’s not hard to imagine a “#FreeRKelly” faction filling up a venue. P. Diddy, too, has recently been accused of sexual assault by multiple women. Would he face the same fate—or would his legacy as a music mogul overshadow these allegations in the public eye?
And this isn’t just about artists. It’s about how we, as a society, treat GBV allegations when they’re attached to people we idolize. When the accused is a regular person, we’re quick to call for justice. But when it’s someone who’s given us bangers like Loyal or Forever, suddenly the energy shifts.
Let’s not sugarcoat it: South Africa is in a GBV crisis. Every day, women are assaulted, murdered, or abused—often by people they know and love. GBV isn’t just a “women’s issue”; it’s a societal plague, one that requires accountability, from individuals to institutions.
So, when we cheer for a man with a GBV record, what message are we sending to survivors? Are we saying, “We see you, but…not today, because this song slaps”?
Forgiveness is a complex thing. As South Africans, we know this better than most. Our history is built on reconciliation and moving forward. But there’s a difference between forgiving someone who has shown true remorse and holding them accountable for their actions.
Chris Brown has apologized for his past, and some argue that he deserves a second chance. Others feel that his repeated controversies over the years make it hard to believe he’s truly changed.
And honestly? This isn’t just about Chris. It’s about how we, as a nation, respond to GBV. We’re quick to condemn it in theory, but when the perpetrator is someone we love—or someone who can draw a crowd—our morals get a little…wobbly.
This blog isn’t about telling you who to listen to or whose concerts to attend. It’s about reflection. What does it mean to support an artist with a history of GBV in a country where so many women live in fear every day? How do we balance our love for music and entertainment with our commitment to justice and accountability?
Because here’s the thing: art is powerful. Music can inspire us, heal us, and bring us together. But it can also perpetuate harmful narratives if we’re not careful.
The FNB Stadium was packed for Chris Brown, and that’s a fact. But what would it look like if we packed stadiums for conversations about ending GBV? For campaigns supporting survivors? For events that amplify the voices of women and marginalized communities?
We have the power to create change—not just through protests and petitions, but through the choices we make every day. Let’s hold artists, leaders, and ourselves accountable. Because at the end of the day, the fight against GBV isn’t just a women’s issue; it’s everyone’s fight.
So, the next time a big name rolls into town, let’s ask ourselves: what are we really supporting? And is it worth the cost?
Chris Brown sang, “These hoes ain’t loyal,” but maybe, just maybe, it’s time for us to flip the script and say: “These values are non-negotiable.” Let’s create a culture that doesn’t just forgive GBV but actively works to prevent it.
