Food poisoning results in illness and, in some cases, death. Among the causes is the underground economy of fake goods. Photo: File
In the past few months, South Africa has been confronted with a nightmare no parent should ever have to face — children dying after eating snacks bought from local spaza shops. From Soweto to Kimberley, from the Eastern Cape to Gauteng, families are burying their young ones because of poisoned, expired and counterfeit foods. Twenty-three children are gone and nearly 900 people have fallen ill.
President Cyril Ramaphosa has declared the crisis a national disaster, citing pesticides like terbufos and aldicarb, highly toxic chemicals never meant to enter human bodies, as the culprits in some cases. In other cases, it is fake food and counterfeit products finding their way into homes.
This tragedy should not have happened. But the truth is, it did not come out of nowhere. South Africa has for years turned a blind eye to unsafe food production, unregulated spaza shops and a thriving underground economy of fake goods. Now, children are paying with their lives.
Yet, amid this darkness, there are institutions trying to fight back — like the Bakery & Food Technology Incubator (Bicsa). Their work shows us not just what went wrong, but how we can rebuild a safer food system.
The non-profit company, registered in 2014, is based in Pretoria. It is essentially a food technology incubation programme designed to support the growth of small food-related businesses. Bicsa provides infrastructure, resources and business development support. These services include guidance on legal compliance and readiness for trade, access to industry technology and management support.
When I visited Bicsa’s microbiological lab, chief executive Ansie Potgieter walked me through its food testing process. It is not glamorous work but it is lifesaving. Technicians test food samples for dangerous pathogens, making sure they are safe for human consumption. They also run shelf-life tests, ensuring products don’t end up being sold long after they should have been discarded. On the day I visited, the team was testing vanilla biscuits — checking both for food safety and shelf life. The biscuits passed, but the point is clear — every single batch should be tested, because one bad product can kill.
Beyond the lab, Bicsa promotes good manufacturing practices, ensuring that food is made in clean, hygienic spaces. And, crucially, they don’t stop at testing. They mentor businesses — especially in poor and rural communities — for years, walking alongside entrepreneurs to build lasting habits of safety and accountability.
In places like Gwakwani village, Limpopo, this means two years of hand-holding, not just a one-off training. As Potgieter put it, “It’s not just about giving people a manual. It’s about making sure safety becomes part of their everyday.” This approach matters because food safety is not simply a technical issue — it is about culture, accountability and building trust. Right now, trust is broken in our townships.
The food poisoning crisis cannot be separated from the growing problem of counterfeit goods in South Africa. A few months ago, reports surfaced about a fake-food production hub in Swaneville, west of Johannesburg, not far from Krugersdorp. Just behind a school, investigators discovered a house producing fake baked beans purporting to be a well-known brand; fake cornflakes, spaghetti, noodles; fake cold drinks, like Lemon Twist and Coca-Cola; milk and even headache medication and cough syrup.
It is alleged that foreigners pay “principals” who arrange asylum documents, provide start-up stock and secure police protection. These are said to have contacts in government departments. The discovery was not the result of government action but rather due to whistleblowers.
This underground industry thrives because poor South Africans are desperate for cheap goods and authorities are either unable or unwilling to crack down. The result — poisonous food ends up in children’s hands.
The effect on the economy of counterfeit food is staggering. Tax Justice South Africa and the South African Revenue Service estimate that the sale of illicit goods robs the state of billions every year — money that could have been used to fund education, healthcare and community development. Imagine if South Africa could recover R12 billion for education, R6.5 billion for health and another R6.5 billion for community development. Instead, that money bleeds into black markets, funding syndicates that care little for the lives lost in Soweto, the Eastern Cape or Kimberley.
But the human cost is even greater. Just last week, four more children died after eating poisonous counterfeit snacks. In Johannesburg, a five-year-old collapsed and died within 20 minutes of sharing a snack with friends. No policy announcement can bring grieving families’ children back.
The crisis has ignited rage in communities, much of it directed at foreign-owned spaza shops. Movements like Operation Dudula and Not In My Name International have called for the closure of spaza shops run by undocumented migrants. In Delmas, Mpumalanga, residents have taken matters into their own hands, shutting down foreign-owned shops.
Leaders like Mo Senne of Not In My Name call it a “progressive step” that should be replicated across South Africa. At the funeral of two young boys in Naledi, Soweto, civil society leaders put the blame squarely on the government: “We have been saying to the health departments: ‘Send inspectors to these spaza shops to see what people are consuming.’ This is not being done. Children are dying and nobody is held accountable,” Zandile Dabula of Operation Dudula said.
There is truth in this anger. For too long, our government has looked away while counterfeit goods flood our markets. Municipal inspectors rarely visit township shops. Health departments lack resources and/or the will to act. Meanwhile, syndicates grow stronger. But blaming foreigners is not the answer. As Ramaphosa reminded the nation, dangerous products are sold in shops owned by South Africans too. The real enemy is unsafe food, not nationality.
This is where Bicsa’s work comes back into focus. The fight against counterfeit and unsafe food cannot be won through anger alone. It requires systematic, scientific oversight — exactly what the organisation provides. Imagine if every snack, biscuit or cold drink sold in townships had to pass a microbiological test before reaching the shelves. Imagine if every spaza shop owner received proper training on food safety, shelf life and storage. Imagine if mentorship programmes, like those Bicsa runs in rural villages, were extended nationwide. Would it cost money? Yes. But as the deaths of 23 children remind us, the cost of inaction is far greater.
The current crisis should be a turning point. It is not enough for politicians to declare emergencies after children die. We need a national food safety authority that partners with labs like Bicsa to test, monitor and certify all food sold in South Africa. We need mandatory registration and inspection of all spaza shops, with strict penalties for those selling expired or counterfeit goods. We need community reporting systems, where residents can alert authorities about suspicious products. We need cross-border enforcement targeting the syndicates importing counterfeit goods. And we need public education campaigns so families know the risks of buying untested, unbranded food.
Most importantly, we need to value the lives of poor children as much as those in wealthy suburbs. Too often, township tragedies are treated as isolated accidents rather than systemic failures. What struck me most at Bicsa was not the technical talk of pathogens or shelf life, but the human commitment. Potgieter and her team understand that food safety is not about statistics — it’s about lives. As one grandmother in Soweto said after losing her grandson: “Because these children are friends, they share everything. They didn’t know they were sharing poison.”
No parent should ever fear that a simple packet of chips could kill their child. No child should die because of greed, negligence or weak enforcement. Bicsa shows us a way forward — not by blaming, but by building trust, testing food, mentoring businesses and making safety part of everyday life.
South Africa is at a crossroads. The deaths of 23 children must be more than a tragic headline. They must force us to confront the underground economy of counterfeit goods, the failure of government inspectors and the vulnerability of poor communities who can only afford what spaza shops sell. The crisis is complex — touching on migration, poverty, corruption and enforcement — but the starting point is simple: food must be safe.
Thabo Motshweni is a PhD candidate at the University of Johannesburg’s Department of Sociology and a research intern at the Centre for Social Change and Centre for Sociological Research and Practice.