My recent writings on South Africa have focused on one persistent theme: sovereignty. National sovereignty. Economic sovereignty. Cultural sovereignty. The right to define ourselves beyond the grasp of imperial powers and their lingering influence. But lately, I’ve been wondering if we need to talk about mental sovereignty too, because some of my countrymen are clearly struggling with that part.

We live in a country where crime and corruption are daily realities. We endure the consequences of unethical leadership, trapped between parties that see us either as voting fodder or pawns in personal power games. It’s understandable, maybe even inevitable, that frustration with leadership can sometimes turn people toward more conservative or populist politics. That happens everywhere. What’s harder to stomach is watching people cross the line not into healthy skepticism, but into something much darker.

Over the last two years, but more so across the last seven months, I’ve noticed an uncomfortable trend: a fascination with far-right politics, especially the version popularized by Donald Trump. And it’s not just some white South Africans clinging to fantasies of the old order; it’s cutting across race and class lines. Black, Brown, and Indian South Africans. Everyone seems to want a piece of the “Make America Great Again” fantasy, even though it has nothing to do with us here and everything to do with protecting white supremacy over there.

Why? Because colonization isn’t just about stealing land or extracting minerals. It is psychological. Long after the empire packed up its flags and monuments, it left behind something more dangerous: a mental operating system. A Eurocentric, colonial worldview; one that persists in today’s media, education, and foreign policy, conditioning us to distrust our own and admire the conqueror.  And now, that system is working exactly as intended; many have become unpaid interns in global reactionary politics.

Worse than colonization is how well they taught the colonized to love their chains. The tragedy isn’t just that some admire their oppressors, it’s that they fight for them. This isn’t just colonial residue; it’s mental conquest, loyalty manufactured by those still exploiting us.

Let’s be clear: Trump promised a lot; better health care (he is destroying it), infrastructure renewal (it became a punch line), and “draining the swamp” (he filled it with cronies). What did he actually deliver? Imperialism. Racism. White nationalism and direct support for ethnic cleansing. Encouragement for armed militias. Dog whistles so loud they shattered eardrums.

And yet some South Africans still cheered him on. Not because of trade policies. Not because of “conservative values.” But because, deep down, some people were more comfortable with his race politics than with any version of African self-determination. Trump gave them permission to say the quiet part out loud, to recycle colonial talking points with a fresh coat of American paint.

And once you show that side of yourself, once you publicly admire a man who told white supremacists to “stand back and stand by,” there’s no easy way to pretend you don’t mean it. The screenshots are there. The tweets don’t delete themselves. And the rest of us are watching.

This isn’t just a South African problem. Look around the Global South: in Brazil, Bolsonaro ran Trump’s playbook like a tribute act. In India, Modi’s Hindu nationalism overlaps with white-supremacist narratives from the US. Kenyan influencers flirt with alt-right memes. Even in West Africa, you’ll find admiration for Trump’s strongman image among certain circles. It’s empire by other means—not military occupation, ideological occupation. Colonialism 2.0.

And the irony? While some South Africans were online singing Trump’s praises, the US under his administration was busy backing exploitative trade deals, enforcing financial restrictions on African economies, propping up ethnic cleansing, and manufacturing consent for wars against countries in the Global South who dared defy US hegemony. And yes, keeping “shithole countries” exactly that—in their eyes, anyway.

So, where does that leave us? Are we fighting for sovereignty or just shopping for new colonial masters with better branding? You can’t claim to be anti-imperialist while cosplaying as a MAGA influencer. You can’t shout about decolonization one day, then boost global alt-right content the next. Pick a side.

For South Africans of color, aligning with this global reactionary project is like trusting the same system that once dispossessed us. For white South Africans who’ve embraced this far-right turn, it exposes what many feared: that “economic anxiety” wasn’t the full story; it was about maintaining racial privilege all along.

But here’s the thing about siding with global white supremacy: It doesn’t love you back. You might wear the hat. You might post the memes. But to them, you’re still Black, Brown, Asian. Still foreign. Still expendable. So, to those still flirting with imperial nostalgia wrapped in red caps: Choose sovereignty. Choose discomfort. Choose truth.

The work of real sovereignty is hard, messy, and uncomfortable. It means confronting corruption at home without running into the arms of racists abroad or their acolytes here at home. It means holding your leaders accountable without selling your future to people who see Africa as nothing more than a resource pit or a charity case.

The masks are off now. We see who’s who. The only question is whether those who flirted with this project have the courage to admit it, or whether they’ll keep doubling down, hoping nobody noticed.

Spoiler: We noticed.

Decolonization doesn’t end when the statues fall. It begins when we stop kneeling to the ones still standing in our minds.

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