In the mid-1960s, Kenneth Kaunda, president of newly independent Zambia, was facing a geopolitical crisis. Landlocked and heavily reliant on copper exports from its Copperbelt region, Zambia depended on the railways and ports of its white minority-ruled neighbours – Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and apartheid-era South Africa – to reach global markets. These countries were not just uncooperative; they were openly hostile. A full economic embargo from either country would not only disrupt Zambia’s ability to export its copper, it would essentially cripple the country’s entire economy.

The main political grievance levelled by Pretoria and Salisbury boiled down to the fact that, since achieving independence from Britain in 1964, Kaunda had positioned Zambia as a haven for Africa’s liberation movements. He welcomed exiled revolutionaries from across the continent, including those from ZANU and ZAPU from Rhodesia, as well as the ANC from South Africa. From Lusaka, these groups coordinated guerrilla operations against colonial and apartheid regimes ruling their countries in the south, incurring the wrath of the racially oppressive leaders of Salisbury and Pretoria – and heightening the threat of economic strangulation.

In response to the growing threat of economic strangulation, Kaunda turned to Julius Nyerere, president of neighbouring Tanzania and a fellow pan-Africanist, who was equally committed to the continent’s liberation. Together, they revived a 19th-century vision first conceived by British imperialist Cecil Rhodes: building a railway line that would link Zambia’s Copperbelt directly to the Tanzanian port city of Dar es Salaam, bypassing Rhodesia and South Africa entirely. In the hands of Kaunda and Nyerere, the railway would become not a tool of empire, but a conduit of emancipation.

Initially, the two leaders appealed to the West to fund the project – France, Britain, the World Bank, and the United States. Each offered the same answer: no. Their refusal wasn’t just about money; it reflected a deeper Cold War-era reluctance to support Africa’s break from Western influence.

Undeterred, Kaunda and Nyerere looked East. In Beijing, they found a willing partner in Chairman Mao Zedong. China agreed to fund, build, and deliver the entire railway – and with remarkably few strings attached.

In one of the most ambitious foreign aid efforts of the 20th century, Chinese engineers and workers descended upon Africa in their thousands. In total, more than 100,000 people – Chinese, Tanzanians, and Zambians – worked on the railway. Upon its completion in 1975, the TAZARA railway line spanned nearly 1,900 kilometres. The total value of the project, when adjusted for inflation, is estimated at over $3 billion, making it the largest foreign aid project in Chinese history at the time. But the TAZARA was more than just a railway. Known as the ‘Uhuru’ or ‘freedom’ railway in Tanzania, it stood as a powerful symbol, a living monument embodying the solidarity between postcolonial Africa and revolutionary China.

And perhaps, more than anything else, it sent a message. For the many African liberation leaders who watched its construction while living as exiles in Zambia and Tanzania – including future presidents of Zimbabwe, Namibia, Mozambique, and South Africa – the lesson was unmistakeable: if the West won’t help us, we will build our future elsewhere. We can always turn to China.

This early gesture of infrastructure diplomacy laid the foundation for a broader transformation in Africa’s foreign relations. The symbolic resonance of TAZARA endures not only because of its material utility, but because it marked the beginning of a long-term political and economic engagement between China and the African continent – an engagement that has expanded dramatically over the last three decades.

For decades, China has methodically cultivated relationships with African leaders. Over the last 35 years, every Chinese foreign minister has continued an unbroken annual tradition of making Africa the first destination of their overseas travels – a symbolic act that reflects long-term strategic prioritisation on the part of China.

Moreover, president Xi Jinping has visited eight African countries since assuming power in 2012, averaging a trip every two years – a trend that far outpaces any US President in recent memory. In 2000, under President Jiang Zemin, China institutionalised its Africa strategy with the launch of the Forum on China-Africa Cooperation (FOCAC). The triennial summit, rotating between Beijing and African capitals, brings together leaders from across the continent for high-level meetings with top Chinese officials.

By contrast, high-level engagement in Africa by American officials has been largely symbolic in recent years. There has only been one US presidential visit to Africa since the Covid-19 pandemic, and this was by President Biden in December 2024, only a few weeks before he was to hand over power to the incoming Trump administration. Before this, the last sitting US president to visit Africa was Barack Obama almost a decade ago.

Under the Obama administration, the US attempted to start its own version of FOCAC in the US-Africa summit of 2014. The summit was scrapped entirely under Donald Trump’s first term, and was only revived in late 2022, when the Biden administration, significantly weakened by midterm electoral losses, attempted to re-engage. Unlike the FOCAC summit, where President Xi Jinping and his top ministers meet individually with each African head of state, the US summit was marked by uneven access. President Biden only met with African leaders as a group, and bilateral exchanges were limited to a few meetings held by Secretary of State Antony Blinken with a select number of African leaders.

Washington made several headline-grabbing pledges during the 2022 summit, including support for the African Union’s (AU) G20 membership, backing a permanent African seat on the UN Security Council, and a $55 billion commitment to the AU’s 2063 development agenda.

Yet the administration fell short on key issues raised by African leaders. Notably, the summit sidestepped the growing debt burden many African nations face from Washington-based institutions like the World Bank and IMF. It also avoided the long-standing concern of unfair global commodity pricing – a system that continues to disadvantage African producers at the bottom of the value chain.

At the same time, African leaders’ criticisms of China’s own lending practices have intensified. The 2024 FOCAC summit in Beijing revealed growing concern over the steady rise in debts owed to China. Still, for many African governments, the difference remains stark: while both Washington and Beijing are creditors, only one appears consistently willing to invest in infrastructure, meet heads of state bilaterally, and maintain long-term strategic interest.

Meanwhile, the US relationship with its largest African trade partner, South Africa, has deteriorated sharply. In March 2025, the Trump administration expelled South Africa’s ambassador in Washington and began boycotting G20 meetings hosted under South Africa’s chairmanship. President Trump has even suggested he may not attend the upcoming G20 heads-of-state summit in Cape Town.

Simultaneously, trade relations have soured: the US has imposed tariffs on exports from some of Africa’s least-developed economies, such as Lesotho and Madagascar – key beneficiaries of the African Growth and Opportunity Act (AGOA), which once served as a lifeline for economic growth through duty-free access to U.S. markets.

As the US retreats diplomatically, with recent reports suggesting an imminent closure of several Africa-based US embassies, Beijing is doubling down. Trade between Africa and China now far surpasses that between Africa and the US, cementing Beijing’s position as the continent’s top economic partner. And while the future of US engagement remains uncertain under a second Trump presidency, China’s strategy continues to emphasise continuity, state-to-state relationships, and a non-interventionist posture.

This is not to romanticise the China-Africa relationship. It is fraught with asymmetries, opacity, and growing concerns about the sustainability of long-term debt. But in an increasingly unpredictable global landscape, China has emerged as a reliable, if imperfect, partner for many African governments. Much like the construction of the TAZARA Railway five decades ago, the continent once again finds itself navigating a hostile geopolitical environment with limited support from the leading economy in the West. And once again, it is turning east.

Ultimately, the United States does not need to ‘compete’ with China in Africa. It needs to show up meaningfully – with respect, with partnerships that reflect African priorities, and with policies that reflect long-term commitment rather than four-year cycles. That means reimagining engagement not as aid but as mutual investment in the future.

The TAZARA Railway still runs today, albeit at a slower pace. But its legacy endures – not just as a Cold War relic, but as a reminder of what happens when the West says ‘no’ and China says ‘yes’

The question isn’t whether Africa will turn to China. It already has. The real question is: will America turn up before the train leaves the station?