There’s a certain kind of heartbreak that comes with watching your country fall apart in slow motion. Not just politically. Not just socially. But physically — crumbling under the weight of rains that don’t stop, floods that swallow homes whole, winds that rip apart roofs, and cold that settles in the bones of people already struggling to eat.
This winter, South Africa is not just cold — she is weeping.
A school bus in the Eastern Cape — filled with laughter, backpacks, and life — was swept away by the floods. Those children were on their way to learn. To become something. To live. And then they were gone. Just like that. Their names now added to a growing list of victims that climate change — and government failure — has claimed.
As I write this, the death toll in the Eastern Cape stands at 18. Eighteen souls gone, and we know that number will rise. People washed away, homes collapsed, families left with nothing but soaked clothes and broken memories.
We are not just witnessing a tragedy. We are living through a national heartbreak. One that repeats itself like a cruel cycle, every time the clouds gather.
KwaZulu-Natal, a province still healing from past floods, is again under siege from extreme weather. The Free State is not spared either. And yet — the silence from our government is louder than the thunder.
Where is the disaster response? Where is the urgency? Where is the dignity in how we care for our people when nature unleashes her wrath?
What we are seeing is not simply a series of unfortunate events. These are not “acts of God.” This is climate change — real, present, and merciless. And if we are honest, it is not new. Scientists and activists have been sounding the alarm for decades. We knew the rain would come harder. The winds would get stronger. The heat would burn longer. We knew.
And still, we have no plan. No preparation. No heart.
South Africa does have climate policies. On paper. The National Climate Change Response Policy (2011) was supposed to be our blueprint. It outlines adaptation strategies, disaster risk management, early warning systems, and resilient infrastructure.
The Disaster Management Act gives municipalities the legal backing to prepare for and respond to emergencies. But laws without action are lies wrapped in nice language. They mean nothing when bridges collapse, and ambulances can’t reach the dying.
How can a state claim to govern when it cannot protect? When informal settlements flood every year, but nothing is done? When families bury their loved ones under mudslides and rubble, while officials fly in after the damage — to take photos, not accountability?
We should not be this vulnerable. Not after all the global summits, policy frameworks, and donor funding supposedly allocated to climate resilience. We should not be dragging bodies out of rivers while ministers release carefully worded statements that say everything except “We failed.”
This is what state failure looks like in the age of climate change.
It is poor Black families living near flood lines because housing policy failed them.
It is children dying in collapsed mud houses because land reform never happened.
It is small farmers watching their crops rot because no one taught them how to adapt to changing rainfall patterns.
It is communities without storm drainage, without emergency shelters, without working disaster hotlines, and without the hope that anyone is coming to help.
And let us not forget — climate change is not a future threat. It is now. And it is not just an environmental issue. It is a justice issue. The people most affected by floods, droughts, and disasters are those already abandoned by the system. The same system that will tell them to “stay indoors” when they have no homes, or to “evacuate” when they have nowhere to go.
So today, I am not just mourning the dead. I am mourning the negligence. The systemic indifference. The wasted years. The warning signs ignored. The policy briefs shelved. The leaders who show up with cameras instead of courage.
South Africa is being punished twice — first by the climate, and then by a government that refuses to prepare.
And as the clouds gather again over the Eastern Cape, as rivers swell in KwaZulu-Natal, and as icy winds cut through the Free State, one can’t help but wonder:
How many more must die before we take climate justice seriously?
