The growing number of women found dead in Ekurhuleni has reignited questions about safety, accountability and the burden placed on women to protect themselves from violence.
By Felicity Makhafola
There is a question that has become almost impossible for women in South Africa to escape:
Am I next?
I hate that I even have to write that sentence.
Yet, for many women, fear has become an almost invisible part of what it means to be a woman in this country.
It follows us when we leave home. It sits with us on roads and public transport, in parking lots and shopping centres, and in those quiet moments when we realise we are walking alone.
The discovery of the bodies of nine women across Ekurhuleni since July has intensified that fear.
Some of the bodies were found in areas including Kempton Park, Rhodesfield and along the R21, with the latest discovery reported in Dawn Park, Boksburg, on 17 September.
Police have not confirmed that all the cases are connected. Investigations must establish the facts and determine whether there is any link between the cases.
But for women and families following these developments, the growing number of deaths and similarities surrounding some of the cases have understandably deepened concerns.
Nine lives, not just a number
Nine.
It is easy to say the number.
It is harder to comprehend what it represents.
Behind that number were nine women with names, families, friendships, responsibilities, dreams and plans.
Nine lives that mattered long before they became part of a news cycle.
And that number raises another uncomfortable question:
How many women are missing whose stories have not yet reached our timelines?
How many families are waiting?
How many women disappear without hashtags, headlines or public attention?
Every woman knows some version of this fear.
It is the hesitation before walking to your car. The decision to call someone while travelling. The instinct to check the back seat. The discomfort of being alone on a quiet road.
It is the message that says, “I’m home,” because someone is waiting to know you made it safely.
The burden of staying safe
Women have been taught the rules.
Do not walk alone.
Do not wear this.
Do not go there.
Do not trust strangers.
Share your location.
Call someone when you get home.
Carry this.
Watch your surroundings.
And still, women are killed.
At what point do we stop asking women what they should do differently and start asking what society is doing to stop the people who hurt them?
How long can women be expected to carry the responsibility for preventing violence committed against them?
Safety cannot become another responsibility women are expected to manage alone.
When declarations must become action
South Africa declared gender-based violence and femicide a national crisis at the G20 Social Summit in November 2025, and the government subsequently classified GBVF as a national disaster.
Those declarations carry enormous weight.
But what does national crisis mean to a woman who is still afraid to walk home?
What does national disaster mean to a family waiting for answers?
What do these words mean when another woman is found dead?
Declarations matter. Public commitments matter.
But they must ultimately translate into action that women can see, communities can experience and families can trust.
The conversation cannot stop at women
There is another conversation taking place, particularly online, that cannot be ignored.
When women speak about violence, some responses quickly turn towards victim-blaming.
Questions are raised about what a woman was wearing, where she went, who she trusted or what she may have done.
Sometimes violence is justified. At other times, contempt and hostility towards women are openly expressed behind anonymous or fake accounts.
Not every man is a threat.
Not every disagreement is hatred.
But men also have a responsibility to examine the conversations taking place among men — both in person and online — and to challenge attitudes, jokes, language and behaviours that normalise violence, misogyny and contempt towards women.
Women should be able to say:
“Women are being killed.”
Without immediately hearing:
“But what about what women do?”
We should be able to mourn without having to justify our grief.
We should be able to demand safety without that demand being conditional.
Fear has a psychological cost
There is something deeply unsettling about knowing that, even while writing about these issues, the person responsible for violence could potentially be watching.
Police have not established that a serial killer is responsible for these deaths, and it is important not to turn fear into fact.
But the fact that women can genuinely entertain that possibility speaks to the psychological weight of the violence surrounding us.
Fear does not always require certainty.
Sometimes, it only requires enough unanswered questions.
Women should be alive
We recently came through Women’s Month — a period dedicated to celebrating women, their achievements, resilience and contributions.
And yet, once again, we find ourselves talking about women’s bodies being discovered.
Women should not have to become symbols of resilience simply because society has failed to make them safe.
We should be protected.
We should be heard.
We should be believed.
Most importantly, we should be alive.
The investigations into these deaths must establish the facts. Families deserve answers. Those responsible must be identified and held accountable through due process.
Communities deserve safety.
Women deserve to move through their neighbourhoods, use public transport, travel to work, meet friends and return home without constantly calculating the risks associated with simply existing outside their homes.
Police have increased patrols and visibility in response to concerns and have urged members of the public not to circulate unverified information or graphic images.
That is important.
But visibility and warnings are only part of the response.
Prevention must matter.
Accountability must matter.
And the role of men must matter.
It means challenging the jokes that reduce women to objects.
Challenging conversations that excuse violence.
Challenging friends who cross boundaries.
Challenging online spaces where hatred is treated as entertainment.
Silence is not neutral when harmful behaviour is being normalised.
I want women to live
I do not want “Am I next?” to become a normal question for women in this country.
I do not want another generation of girls to learn how to stay safe before they learn how to live freely.
I do not want more families identifying loved ones through devastating circumstances.
I do not want more women becoming headlines.
I want women to live.
Not cautiously.
Not conditionally.
Not with our keys between our fingers and our locations shared with five different people.
Just live.
Because being a woman in South Africa should not feel like waiting to find out whether you will become the next name we mourn.
