The messages started arriving at the South African Presidency in November like desperate whispers. Seventeen young men, ages 20 to 39, were begging to come home.
Most were from KwaZulu-Natal, one from the Eastern Cape. They were trapped in the rubble of Donbas, Ukraine, their passports gone and their promises shattered.
President Cyril Ramaphosa received the distress calls with grim recognition. These weren’t soldiers. They were victims of a calculated scheme that had turned civil job recruitment into an industry of deception.
The mechanics were beautifully simple, designed to exploit hope itself. Young men saw opportunity: lucrative employment contracts with impressive salaries. Glossy promotional materials promised adventure and prosperity. Nobody mentioned a war or drones to them.
One Ms Adau from South Sudan had watched the same videos that lured the South African men. She remembered her first day at the facility 800 kilometers east of Moscow. No hospitality roles. No technical training. Just a uniform and a 12 hour shift handling toxic chemicals that burn skin, producing up to 300 Iranian-style Shahed drones daily. The same weapons are striking Ukrainian homes and hospitals.
Nearly 200 women were trapped there, alongside the South African men. More than 40 countries were represented. Passports confiscated. Curfews enforced. Constant surveillance. Some hadn’t been paid. The facility operators planned to bring 8,500 more.
“President Ramaphosa has ordered an investigation into the circumstances that led to the recruitment of these young men into these seemingly mercenary activities,” the South African government announced in an official statement in early November. “The South African government is working through diplomatic channels to secure the return of these young men following their calls for assistance to return home.”
Under the Foreign Military Assistance Act of 1998, it is illegal for South African citizens to participate in foreign armies without government authorisation. Yet the recruitment networks had operated almost openly, sometimes through channels that appeared official.
The BRICS Women’s Business Alliance had provided legitimacy to some agencies.
Government websites in certain countries had carried the advertisements. Some influencers, who were paid up to $12,000 each, had promoted the scheme to millions of followers across Africa.
By the time apologies came, it was too late. Cyan Boujee, a South African influencer with millions of followers, posted her apology on August 26th, after her glossy promotional videos had already reached nearly two million people. Young women across the continent had already seen the promise. Some had already boarded planes to Moscow.
“That girl cried,” Boujee later admitted, describing a woman she’d interviewed at the facility who was forced to say she was treated well. The influencer lost brand partnerships.
Her TikTok account was shut down. But what about the girls who believed her?
The South African government expressed its condemnation sharply: “President Ramaphosa and the South African government strongly condemn the exploitation of young vulnerable people by individuals working with foreign military entities.”
An investigation by investigative journalists revealed what bureaucracy had missed. The website AlabugaTruth.com documented the entire recruitment network, names, faces, connections, contact information for facilitators across Africa. Nine exhaustive investigations published by ZAM and partner outlets interviewed trapped recruits, government officials, and the businessmen facilitating the scheme.
In April 2024, a Ukrainian drone struck the facility. Several African workers were wounded. The cruel irony was inescapable: they’d been deceived into manufacturing the weapons that nearly killed them.
Uganda suspended new admissions after their embassy raised concerns. South Africa launched investigations. Nigeria’s Ministry of Education claimed hacking and artificial intelligence had planted job advertisements on their official website.
Yet satellite imagery showed the Alabuga complex expanding in real time, new apartments, construction sites, and tent cities. The infrastructure of exploitation is growing daily.
For the South African men calling home from Donbas, for Adau and the girls who believed the influencers, the apologies and investigations arrived too late. Their passports remain confiscated. They remain trapped. The system that enabled this trafficking, the platforms, the payment structures, the border networks, remains largely intact.
This is how modern trafficking operates: through Instagram feeds and official websites, through economic desperation and digital trust. And the cruelest part? Tomorrow, somewhere in Africa, another young person will scroll through their phone and see a promise of opportunity. The machinery is already waiting.
Munna, a Journalist and Public Affair Analyst, writes from River State, Nigeria.
