It wasn’t just another storm. What fell from the skies over South Africa’s Eastern Cape wasn’t ordinary rain — it was a relentless deluge that swallowed roads, homes, schools, and entire communities. By the time the waters began to recede, at least 92 people were confirmed dead, with dozens still missing, and thousands left displaced. The government had little choice but to declare a national disaster.
In the small town of Gqeberha, residents waded through waist-high waters, clutching salvaged belongings. Schoolyards turned to swamps, and power outages rolled through entire districts. “I’ve never seen rain like this,” said Nomsa, a mother of three whose home collapsed after two days of pounding storms. “It was like the heavens were punishing us.”
Meteorologists described the rainfall as extreme even by regional standards. In some places, the volume of rain exceeded the total average for an entire season in just under a week. The South African Weather Service pointed to a deadly cocktail of climate change, poor drainage infrastructure, and unpredictable storm patterns as the culprits. Scientists have long warned that southern Africa is particularly vulnerable to climate shocks — and once again, the warnings appear to have come true.
But while the weather may be uncontrollable, the impact of the disaster was made worse by human inaction. Years of underinvestment in drainage systems, haphazard urban sprawl, and informal settlements built along riverbanks meant that the waters had nowhere to go. And as always, the poorest were hit hardest.
President Cyril Ramaphosa’s government responded by declaring the Eastern Cape and parts of KwaZulu-Natal as disaster zones, opening the way for emergency funding and humanitarian relief. In his speech to Parliament, Ramaphosa said, “This is a wake-up call. Climate change is not a future threat; it is a present danger.”
Still, critics argue that the wake-up call came too late. Environmental groups point to several reports and recommendations — some gathering dust in ministerial drawers — urging preventive investment in climate-resilient infrastructure. The calls were ignored or underfunded.
“The real disaster isn’t just the rain,” said Sipho Dlamini, a climate policy analyst based in Johannesburg. “It’s the persistent failure to prepare for what we all knew was coming.”
Aid groups have mobilised, but access to some rural areas remains a challenge. Washed-out roads and flooded bridges have left entire communities cut off. Rescue operations, involving the army and emergency medical services, have been ongoing, with helicopters airlifting stranded families from rooftops.
The South African Red Cross launched an emergency appeal, while Médecins Sans Frontières set up mobile clinics to treat the injured and provide basic medical support. Diseases like cholera and waterborne infections are a growing concern, with water sanitation facilities overwhelmed.
Meanwhile, ordinary South Africans have stepped up in heartening ways. In East London, volunteers set up soup kitchens for those displaced. In Mthatha, local taxi drivers offered free rides to ferry people to shelters. Faith groups turned churches and mosques into safe havens. Solidarity, at least, seems more reliable than bureaucracy.
Beyond the immediate disaster, though, lurks a much broader question: what next? South Africa is no stranger to extreme weather — droughts, floods, and fires have become a tragic seasonal rhythm. Yet national planning remains patchy, and funds allocated for climate resilience are often lost to inefficiency or corruption.
UN climate officials have urged Pretoria to act decisively in the wake of this crisis. “If these deaths do not trigger change, what will?” asked Dr. Leila Hassan, a regional director at the UN Environment Programme. “This is not an isolated weather event. It’s a trend.”
Some hope that the tragedy will jolt the political class into realising that climate action isn’t a ‘green issue’ — it’s a human survival issue. Others are less optimistic, noting that similar disasters in 2019 and 2022 were followed by pledges, photo ops, and ultimately, stagnation.
For families in the Eastern Cape who have lost loved ones, homes, and livelihoods, change cannot come fast enough. “We can’t go through this again,” said Nomsa, standing outside a temporary shelter, rain still drizzling above. “But if nothing changes, we will.”
