The process of changing the names of towns, cities and landscapes in South Africa is not one that is taken lightly. It is, and has always been, a deliberate act of reflection — anchored in history, contested in the present, and aimed at the future we seek to become.
Names are not neutral markers on a map; they are vessels of memory and power. They tell us who mattered, whose stories were elevated, and whose were erased.
The current conversation about renaming East London to KuGompo City sits squarely within this national reckoning. For some, it provokes anxiety and nostalgia. For others, it offers a long-overdue affirmation of identity.
To engage this debate honestly, we must move beyond sentimentality and ask a harder question: what do our place names say about us as a democratic society, and whose consciousness do they continue to privilege?
East London is a name rooted in empire — an echo of Britain transplanted onto African soil, indifferent to the indigenous histories that predate colonial arrival by centuries. Gompo, by contrast, is not an invention of the present moment.
It is an older truth, carried in the language, memory and everyday speech of the people who have always known this place as home. To restore Gompo is not to erase history, but to rebalance it.
KuGompo is, in fact, the original name by which the East London area was known long before it was violently annexed by white settlers. Some of the earliest documented references to Ilitye lika Gompo date back to 1687, following the wreck of the ship Stavenisse in the area. Far from being an arbitrary or invented label, KuGompo is therefore anchored in deep historical memory.
Ilitye lika Gompo also occupies a significant place in Xhosa spiritual tradition. It is regarded as a sacred site where paternal ancestral spirits are believed to reside in the water, and where the ill may seek healing by visiting the cove.
It was at Ilitye lika Gompo that the renowned Xhosa prophet Makhanda, also known as Nxele, intended to call upon the ancestors from the sea to assist the Xhosa nation in driving away white colonial forces. Gompo, in this sense, is not merely a name — it is a spiritual geography.
During my time as spokesperson for the late minister of sport, arts and culture Nathi Mthethwa, I witnessed firsthand how seriously the South African state treats questions of heritage, memory and identity.
One moment remains particularly instructive. In Bahrain, at a UNESCO Congress, Mthethwa led SA’s delegation to witness the inclusion of the Barberton Makhonjwa Mountains on the World Heritage List — our country’s tenth such site.
That recognition was not accidental. It was the result of years of scientific research, diplomatic engagement and a clear articulation of why African landscapes, long dismissed or exploited, are central to humanity’s shared story. Barberton’s ancient rocks — among the oldest on Earth — reminded the world that Africa is not merely a backdrop to history, but its cradle.
What struck me in Bahrain was the coherence of our national position: that restoring dignity to African heritage is inseparable from restoring dignity to African people.
The renaming of places, like the protection of heritage sites, forms part of a broader government programme to transform the heritage landscape of SA. It is a policy choice rooted in constitutional values, not ideological whim.
It was also during that same trip to Bahrain that the renaming of Grahamstown to Makhanda was officially gazetted back home. The timing was not incidental. As SA stood before the world asserting the value of African heritage through the recognition of the Barberton Makhonjwa Mountains, the country was simultaneously engaged in a difficult but necessary internal conversation about whose names deserve permanence on our landscapes.
Opposition to the name Makhanda was, in the main, rooted in sentimentality rather than historical innocence. This made it crucial to rationalise with South Africans, and in so doing help us understand why there could no longer be a city bearing the name of Lt-Gen John Graham.
Graham served under Col John Cradock and was heralded in Queen Victoria’s court as an originator of the so-called “scorched earth” policy, praised for “breaking the back of the native”. To continue honouring such a figure is to normalise the violence and dispossession that underpinned colonial conquest.
Makhanda ka Nxele, by contrast, was a heroic figure in the Xhosa frontier wars — a spiritual leader and strategist who resisted colonial domination with courage and conviction. For his defiance, he was condemned to imprisonment on Robben Island, where he would ultimately die in captivity.
Graaf-Reinet has also recently been renamed, with the new namesake honouring Robert Sobukwe, the anti-apartheid leader and founder of the PAC.
Like Makhanda, Gqeberha, Moletswai and James Calata, this renaming is an extension of the same historical logic: recognising figures who resisted oppression and centering their legacy in the nation’s landscape.
Former president Thabo Mbeki once posed a searching question in explaining why the department of sport, arts and culture exists at all. Quoting scripture, he asked: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, only to lose his soul?”
In that framing, the department exists to safeguard the nation’s soul — its memory, creativity and moral compass. Renaming, then, is not peripheral to development; it is central to the ethical project of nation-building.
Since 1994, the democratic state has approached renaming as a process of perpetual renewal — an ongoing conversation with our past rather than a once-off rupture. The aim has never been to pretend that colonialism and apartheid did not happen, but to ensure that their symbols do not continue to dominate the public imagination.
The previous names of many of our towns and cities attest to a painful legacy. They honour colonial administrators, apartheid architects and imperial geographies that were imposed through conquest and dispossession. To continue venerating these names is to normalise the culture of subjugation from which they emerged. It is to suggest that the trauma embedded in them is somehow tolerable, or worse, worthy of preservation.
We would not accept the hoisting of the apartheid flag as an expression of heritage in democratic SA. Critics of renaming often raise concerns about cost, consultation and social cohesion. These are legitimate considerations and must be addressed with transparency and care. Yet they cannot become vetoes against transformation itself. Consultation should deepen democracy, not freeze it. Economic prudence should guide implementation, not undermine principle.
KuGompo City, as a name, invites us to imagine an urban future grounded in local identity while remaining open to the world. It asks residents to see themselves as participants in a shared story that did not begin with colonial settlement and will not end with administrative change.
Ultimately, renaming is about more than signage and stationery. It is about who we choose to honour in our everyday lives, which histories we amplify, and how we nurture a national consciousness that is honest about the past and confident in the future.
In choosing names that reflect the depth and dignity of indigenous heritage, South Africa is not looking backward; it is, quite deliberately, naming its way forward.
Asanda Magaqa is an award-winning journalist, communication consultant and media strategist based in the Eastern Cape.
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