Nigerian-owned property was burned in South Africa. The Nigerian government told Nigerians to hide.

On March 24, an Igbo community in KuGompo City in the Eastern Cape installed Solomon Ogbonna Eziko as their community leader, under the title "Igwe Ndigbo Na East London." That translates roughly as the Igbo leader of East London. It was an internal community organisation. Something diaspora communities across the world do. Italians in America have their community associations. Lebanese communities in West Africa have their networks. Igbo Nigerians in South Africa organised their own, gave it a name, gave it a face.

South Africa did not receive it that way.

Political parties marched. ActionSA, the Patriotic Alliance, traditional leaders. They called it an attack on sovereignty, a violation of customary law, a provocation. The march turned violent. Vehicles were burned. Buildings were torched.Property belonging to foreign nationals went up in the Eastern Cape while police used tear gas and stun grenades to try to control the situation.

The Nigerian High Commission issued a 10-point advisory. Nigerians were told to be security-conscious. To moderate their movement. To limit interaction with unfamiliar persons. To maintain a low profile. To suspend all socio-cultural activities. To avoid making inflammatory statements on social media.

That is the full response of the Nigerian state to its citizens having their property burned in another country.

Not a demand for protection. Not a diplomatic statement insisting that South African authorities guarantee the safety of Nigerian nationals on South African soil. Not a conversation about what the attack signals for the roughly 600,000 Nigerians estimated to be living and working in South Africa. An advisory. Telling them to make themselves smaller.

Ohanaeze, the apex Igbo organisation, condemned both the installation and the violence. They clarified that "Igwe Ndigbo" titles in diaspora communities are not formally recognised by the South-East Council of Traditional Rulers. They urged Igbo communities abroad to use "non-kingship designations." They dissociated the organisation from the controversy.

That is also what siding with your host country over your own people looks like when you need to maintain a relationship.

To understand what happened in KuGompo, you need to understand what Nigerians in South Africa carry every day. It isn't a new situation. South Africa has experienced recurring waves of xenophobic violence since 2008. Zimbabweans, Mozambicans, and Nigerians specifically have been targeted. The narrative that Nigerian nationals are criminals, drug dealers, and job stealers has circulated in South African public life for years. It is amplified by political parties that need an external target. It finds its way into protests that start as demonstrations and end as attacks on shops, homes, and people.

Nigerians in South Africa build businesses. They employ South Africans. They pay taxes. They send remittances home that are a meaningful part of Nigeria's foreign exchange. And when the political mood shifts, when a video goes viral, when a party needs something to march about, the same people who have been contributing quietly find their property on fire.

The coronation gave the fire a match. But the timber was already dry.

If you're Nigerian and living in South Africa or Ghana right now, today's edition is partly for you. Not with advice about what to do. Just with the acknowledgement of what it costs to live somewhere that sees you as the problem, while your home country's response is to tell you to be less visible.

You already knew that was coming. Knowing doesn't make it easier to sit with.