My recent encounter with Home Affairs offers a nuanced view, equal parts disconcerting and optimistic.
In recent times, as South Africans look to the Government of National Unity for signs of progress, it’s encouraging to see that at least one ministry – Home Affairs – is beginning to deliver tangible results. In particular, we are led to believe that the old green ID books are being phased out in favour of new Smart ID cards.
Even as we hear that good news, government promises are met with scepticism: some in the media and many residents claim the improvements are illusory and that systemic inefficiencies persist.
My recent encounter with Home Affairs offers a nuanced view, equal parts disconcerting and optimistic. Several months ago, reassured by public statements, I booked a 9am appointment online at my local branch, in George, Western Cape. Upon arrival, I was directed to a short queue of about 10 people with appointments, while a second queue – nearly 10 times as long along the sidewalk — accommodated walk-ins. I felt quite chuffed that I had booked ahead; so far, so good.
At the entrance, those of us with bookings were handed a clipboard bearing a printed list. We were asked to find and cross out our names to confirm attendance. While a practical system in theory, the font was so tiny that I had genuine difficulty locating my name. My eyesight is perfectly serviceable; the issue was the microscopic print.
Inside, I handed my green ID book to the official who checked his screen and returned my book to me. No, he explained, I was not yet eligible to apply for a Smart ID because I wasn’t born in South Africa. But, but… the public announcements!
No, my ID book and Permanent Resident certificate weren’t enough — yet. He offered two choices. I could — right then and there and for a fee — apply for a new green ID book somehow different from my current one, and once with that in hand, I could then return later, maybe two months, maybe four, for the Smart ID; or I could skip that step and wait to receive a text message confirming my eligibility for the Smart ID. I chose the latter.
Smooth, until…
The text never arrived but I kept tabs on public updates. A few months later, the ministry announced that non-citizen Permanent Residents could now apply for the Smart ID. That’s me.
The online application process was smooth and straightforward — until the very last step. I was prompted to sign and enter the location where I was signing. But there was no functionality to do this electronically no matter how I hovered my cursor. I couldn’t sign nor input a location.
I submitted it anyway, albeit with trepidation. Rejected. I tried again. Rejected. I saved, logged out, returned hours later, and without making any changes tried once more. This time, inexplicably, my application was accepted. Within minutes, I received a confirmation email and text instructing me to bring my green ID book and Permanent Resident certificate to Home Affairs. Right as rain!
Naturally, I booked a fresh appointment. I arrived at 9.45am for a 10am slot, with no sidewalk queues at all, for neither the booked nor the walk-ins. The clipboard and its impossible font size returned. Once again, I strained to locate and strike through my name.
I approached the same officer from my earlier visit. He noted the time, 9.45am, and asked me to wait until 10am. I pointed out that no one else was waiting, so please… He politely insisted that I take a seat. But, I said, there’s no one here, can’t you help me now? No, please take a seat. So I sat a mere three metres away, watching him do absolutely nothing for the next fourteen minutes. Uh-oh.
I approached his desk at 9.59am. He found my record in the system, and handed me ticket number 70, directing me to the biometrics desk. Onward.
The biometrics officer was also unoccupied and signalled that I would need to wait until my number 70 was formally called. Dutifully as ever, I sat in one of the many empty chairs not 10 metres from his desk. Sure enough, two minutes later, number 70. I provided fingerprints and a signature; into the booth for a photo. Done within five minutes.
He told me to wait again until my number 70 came up for verification. Within minutes, I was seated with a new officer. Wow, this is now going very well.
She asked to take my fingerprints. I pointed across the room to the biometrics chap and said I had just come from there so all was well. No, she said, I must verify that you are you. I can only presume that this was a precaution to ensure I hadn’t changed identities in the 20m walk and four-minute wait. Okay, fine.
The scan of my fingerprints produced an amber status, not green, not red. She asked me to try again. This time it turned red. I was sent back to redo the biometrics. The entire process was repeated, and once again I was instructed to wait until my number 70 was called. Operational challenges, as it is said.
I found a seat close to the same officer, who had by then stepped away, possibly for a tea break. Twenty minutes later, she returned and number 70 was called.
Again: amber, then red! She called over her manager and explained the issue. The manager authorised an override with her fingerprint. Then the officer used her own fingerprint to regain access to her computer. Bureaucratic ballet done and dusted.
The officer now asked for my original Permanent Resident certificate. I handed it over, protected from wear and tear in the plastic sleeve I store it in. She asked if I had the original. I said yes, that’s it, in your hand.
With nary a glance, she made copies of both my certificate and ID book. As she reviewed my online application. I braced myself for a rejection or at least a request to sign, thinking back to the signature I’d never been able to provide online. She said not a word and must have used my signature from the biometrics officer. No issue, all in order.
She informed me that I’d receive a notification in about six months to collect my Smart ID. It could be sooner, she added, but delays were likely given the newness of the system. Within the hour, I received confirmation of the day’s progress via text and email. Pretty good.
Weeks, not months
And then — who needs six months? Less than five weeks later, I received a text and email telling me that my card was ready. One said my “replacement ID”, the other said “ID reissue”, but I pretended not to be concerned about the slight difference and the absence of the word “Smart” that Home Affairs has so loudly proclaimed.
Another 10am appointment, another tiny font, immediately at the reception chap’s counter. Looked at his computer, gave me a number and sent me upstairs for ID collections. Up I go, into a smaller room with desks for three agents.
I was second in the queue, and within five minutes I was at the desk of the only agent working, the very same one who weeks before couldn’t verify my fingerprints downstairs. Up here, with a different fingerprint scanner, I figured this was going to be easy.
No such luck. Several attempts. My fingerprints were not accepted. It seems that though fingerprints don’t age, scanning machines can’t handle old man skin — that’s mine.
She escorts me downstairs to a counter to await someone to override the system. Fifteen minutes later, my excitement drained by my impatience, along comes a young agent who slowly makes things happen; logging into the computer at that desk took another five minutes. But then it happened — I signed in a few places, he copied a few documents, and my Smart ID was in my hand!
All good! But not fully the end of the story.
As he handed me my old green ID book, he said I should keep it in a safe place. I said I’d rather just throw it away. No, he repeated, keep it in a safe place. Once at home I read the letter from Home Affairs that accompanied the card.
It said, and I quote: “… and replaces the green barcoded identity document which should be handed in at the Department of Home Affairs when issued with a Smart ID Card”. But wait, the agent just gave it to me, told me to safeguard it, what’s a guy to do now? Just smile.
On the card itself is printed “Date of Issue 30 May 2025”. That was a mere two weeks after my application was accepted, not the six months I was warned about, thank you. But if it was issued on 30 May, why did it take three weeks to tell me it was ready for collection? Just asking for a friend.
So I now am relishing the last round of a rousing ride — an experience at once off-putting and ultimately positive. While much remains to be improved, my cautious optimism remains intact. Perhaps this is what progress looks like in South Africa: slow, uneven, but moving forward nonetheless.
