By Papama Meleni

Nomsa sits in the registration queue at 5 AM, her acceptance letter clutched in one hand, a  crumpled R50 note in the other. She’s been here since yesterday, sleeping on the cold concrete  because she knows this might be her only shot. Her mother sold vegetables on the street corner  for three years to save for this moment. But the R50 won’t even cover the application fee, let  alone tuition.

She’s not alone in that queue. Behind her stands Thabo, whose taxi fare home will cost more  than what’s left in his pocket after paying registration. Next to him, Lerato scrolls through her  phone, desperately trying to find someone—anyone—who might lend her money for  textbooks.

This is the face of South Africa’s higher education crisis. It’s not just numbers on a spreadsheet  or policy debates in Parliament. It’s Nomsa, Thabo, and Lerato. It’s thousands of young South  Africans whose dreams are bigger than their bank accounts.

When Leadership Loses Its Way

Something has gone terribly wrong. The very people meant to champion education are failing  the students they’re supposed to serve. As the Minister of Higher Education’s credibility  continues to crumble, so does the faith of an entire generation. Students watch press  conferences and parliamentary sessions, wondering if anyone up there understands what it’s  like to choose between lunch and photocopying notes.

The irony is heartbreaking. These are often the children and grandchildren of people who  fought for the right to education—who believed that knowledge could break the chains of  apartheid and poverty. Yet here we are, decades into democracy, and education still feels like  a luxury many can’t afford.

The Real Cost of Failure

Walk through any university residence and you’ll hear the stories:

Sipho, a third-year engineering student, hasn’t been home in two years because he can’t afford  transport. He spends every holiday working at a local garage, sending whatever he earns to  his grandmother.

Precious drops out in her final year—not because she’s failing, but because her father lost his  job and she needs to work to support her younger siblings.

Mandla graduates with a commerce degree but ends up driving an Uber because his  qualification doesn’t open doors the way it was supposed to.

These aren’t statistics. They’re our brothers, sisters, neighbors. They’re the future doctors who  might have cured diseases, the teachers who could have inspired the next generation, the  entrepreneurs who might have created jobs. Instead, they’re casualties of a system that promises  much but delivers little.

Hope in the Darkness

But here’s what gives me hope: South Africans haven’t given up on each other.

In boardrooms and living rooms across the country, former student leaders are rolling up their  sleeves. Organizations like the South Africa Student Solidarity Foundation for Education  (SASSFE) are proof that when government fails, communities step up. They’re not just raising  money—they’re restoring faith.

These alumni remember what it felt like to worry about fees, to skip meals, to wonder if they  belonged in lecture halls. Now successful in their careers, they’re reaching back to pull others  up. It’s beautiful, really. But it shouldn’t be necessary.

What We Owe Each Other

We need to ask ourselves some hard questions: What kind of country are we building when  talent is wasted because of poverty? How can we call ourselves a democracy when opportunity  depends on your parents’ bank balance? What legacy are we leaving when bright minds are  dimmed by financial stress?

This is our chance to demand better. Not just for the students struggling today, but for the  seven-year-old who dreams of becoming a doctor, the teenager who wants to study law, the  young mother who hopes to become a teacher.

The Time is Now

This isn’t someone else’s problem. It’s ours. Whether you’re a parent watching your child  struggle, a graduate who remembers the anxiety of registration day, or simply someone who  believes South Africa deserves better—this is your fight too.

Because when we fail our students, we fail ourselves. When we let dreams die because of empty  pockets, we all become poorer. When leadership fails, it’s not just the politicians who lose  credibility—it’s our entire society that loses its soul.

Nomsa is still in that queue. Her mother is still selling vegetables. Her dream is still alive, but  barely.

The question is: What are we going to do about it?

The choice is ours. The time is now. Because the cost of doing nothing is a price none of  us can afford to pay.