Clashes During Forced Eviction in Kasoa Kumbe: What Are We Really Doing to Each Other?
A few years ago, I stumbled into a situation I never saw coming. I was driving through a small town—nothing fancy, just a sleepy little place with makeshift kiosks, kids playing soccer barefoot, and that one guy who always sells coconuts by the road. The kind of place where life seems simple. Until it’s not.
That day, I saw people crying, shouting, carrying what little they could hold. Bulldozers were eating up homes like they were made of paper. And the worst part? Nobody was listening. No one in charge even looked like they wanted to explain. Just chaos. Dust. And a strange silence behind all the noise.
Fast-forward to now, and it’s Kasoa Kumbe. Same story, different headline.
If you haven’t seen the videos going around on social media, you might think I’m exaggerating. But it's been rough—forced evictions turning into violent clashes. People thrown out of their homes like old furniture. And yeah, I get it, maybe some of the structures weren’t “legal” or “registered.” But come on. Since when did legality mean it’s okay to treat people like they don’t matter?
What really got me was the woman—probably in her 50s—screaming as they dragged her things out. “Where should I go? Tell me!” she yelled. Not even at anyone in particular. Just... to the world, maybe. I still think about her. Maybe because she reminded me of my own mum, who still lives in a house that creaks when it rains too hard. You’d be surprised how many people are just one step away from losing everything.
I might be wrong, but I don’t think anyone wakes up and decides, “Today I’ll fight the police because I’m bored.” People are angry because they’re desperate. That kind of fear—of not knowing where you’ll sleep tonight—it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.
And it’s not just about homes. It’s dignity. It’s years of memories. Birthday parties. That one chair your grandpa used to sit in. It’s your neighbor who always borrowed your salt but never returned your Tupperware. All of that—gone in a day.
Now, I’m not saying there’s never a reason to clear land or move people (urban planning is messy, I get it). But does it have to be this cruel? Couldn't there be conversations before bulldozers? Couldn’t there be a system that’s, I don’t know, less heartless?
Sometimes, I wonder—what would we do if someone came to our door one morning and said, “Pack up. You’ve got ten minutes.” Would we stay calm? Would we trust the process?
Or would we fight too?
I don’t have all the answers. Maybe nobody does. But I do know this: the way we handle people in their most vulnerable moments says more about us than any policy or press release ever could.
So here’s what I keep asking myself: In a country where so many of us have struggled, built from scratch, and prayed our way through hard times—how did we become so quick to forget?
And maybe more importantly… who’s next?
Your turn. Have you ever seen something like this up close? How did it make you feel?
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