SUKOLUHLE NDLOVU
The bus comes to a halt on a chilly morning, with dust still hanging in the air as passengers slowly step down at the Beitbridge Border Post.
Among them is 37-year-old Juliet Muskwe, gripping a small travel bag in one hand and holding her children close with the other. She pauses for a moment before walking forward, as if trying to make sense of the fact that this is home again. Not by choice, she says, but by fear.
After years in South Africa, she has come back with almost nothing. No furniture, no savings she can access, and no certainty about what comes next.
For days before she left, she says, tension had been building in the area where she lived. Rumours of attacks on foreign nationals spread quickly. People started packing in a hurry, and some left at night. Others simply disappeared from houses they had rented for years.
“I didn’t want to leave,” she says, adjusting the strap of her bag. “But when you hear people saying foreigners must go, you don’t wait to find out what happens next. I just took my children and left.”
Around her, other returnees move in silence. Some sit on the pavement outside the arrivals area. Others scan the crowd for familiar faces.
Juliet is now back in Zimbabwe, but she says the return does not feel like relief. It feels like another beginning she did not prepare for.
“I don’t even know where we start from here,” she adds.
She is one of thousands of Zimbabweans returning through Beitbridge as anti-immigrant tensions continue to unsettle migrant communities in South Africa. The journey home offers physical safety, but for many it also opens up a new struggle—survival in an economy already under pressure.
Further down the queue of arrivals is Simbarashe Machona, carrying a worn backpack and looking tired from the long trip.
He says he had proper documentation to stay in South Africa, but the atmosphere changed too quickly to ignore.
“I had my papers in order, but things started shifting. Every day it was something new about foreigners,” Machona says, glancing back toward the bus he came on. “I decided it was better to leave while I still could. I feel safer here now, even if I have to start again from zero.”
At the Roadport Bus Terminus in Harare, the scene is no different. More arrivals, more quiet conversations, and more people trying to figure out what to do next.
A woman, who asked not to be named, sits on a bench with two small bags at her feet. She has just arrived from South Africa and says she is grateful to be alive but overwhelmed by what she has lost.
“We left everything behind,” she says. “Even things you think you can replace, you realise you can’t just start over like that.”
She pauses, then adds a concern shared by many others waiting around her.
“The government should help us. If there was a duty waiver, at least we could bring our things back home. Right now, everything is stuck there.”
She then lowers her voice slightly, watching others around her.
“And some people have nowhere to go. No house, no relatives. They’re just arriving and don’t know where they will sleep.”
The government has since announced that Zimbabweans returning to the country in the wake of renewed xenophobic attacks will benefit from the immigrant’s rebate, allowing them to bring personal effects, household goods, and one motor vehicle into the country duty-free.
Outside the terminal, people sit on the ground waiting for transport into town. Some are being picked up by relatives. Others stand alone, watching every passing car.
Humanitarian workers say they are trying to assist the most vulnerable with temporary shelter and transport, but the need is growing faster than the available support.
Economists warn that while returnees may bring skills and experience back to Zimbabwe, the immediate pressure is significant. Jobs are already scarce, and housing is stretched in urban areas.
Zimbabwe has long depended on labour migration to South Africa, with remittances supporting families back home for years. Now, that lifeline is being disrupted for many households at once.
As the buses continue arriving, one after another, Beitbridge becomes less a border post and more a waiting room for uncertainty.
Juliet stands slightly apart from the crowd, watching her children sit on a small bag while they wait for a lift.
“I just want to find somewhere for them to sleep tonight,” she says. “Tomorrow, we will see.”
Around her, the arrivals keep coming.
