politics

Whatever you call him, don’t call him stupid

JayZee

Image: REUTERS/Mike Hutchings

Did you hear about the latest stupid thing the idiot Jacob Zuma did? What a stupid thing. What an idiot.

I don’t even need to give you details, because we don’t need them any more: “Ugh, what an idiot!” has become the knee-jerk response of many South Africans whenever the president is mentioned.

To be fair, Zuma hasn’t helped cement his legacy as one of this country’s great philosophers. He has proved entirely unwilling to halt the vast and relentless crime that is our education system, a broken machine that now does nothing except eat up and spit out the potential of literally millions of young South Africans.

He is happy to choke off funding to universities and then make political mileage out of ensuing anger. When he spoke about “clever blacks”, he surely became one of the only leaders in history to imply being educated is a character flaw.

But of course that was always the plan.

Zuma’s surge to power was built on a fundamentally anti-intellectual platform. We’re not the best-educated country to start with, so it was very easy to link Thabo Mbeki’s alleged “aloofness” to his bookishness and addiction to long words.

Thinkers, the Zuma camp told us, are robotic elitists who don’t care about you and your problems.

Once those prejudices were firmly in place, all Zuma had to do was roll into town, singing, dancing and unleashing his vast charisma; playing to perfection the role of a man of the people.

Given all of that, perhaps it was inevitable that people would start calling him stupid.

The racists got in early, setting up a shrill chorus of “Zuma is stupid!” right from the start, perhaps because the best way of hiding the fact that you are fantastically stupid is to point the finger at someone else.

But not all those who have subsequently joined the chorus are motivated by racism.

appeal to the gods to restore justice by sending the queue-jumper back to square one

Many, I think, are reacting to the anxiety educated people feel when the natural order of the universe – school, university, hard work, harder work, status, power – is usurped by someone who seems to leap straight from school to power. Whether the usurper is a politician or a pop star, the response is the same: “But X is so stupid!” It is framed as an insult but I think it’s more of an appeal to the gods to restore justice by sending the queue-jumper back to square one and forcing them to go through the proper middle-class channels.

In Zuma’s case, however, I think the insults are meant. Which is weird, because Jacob Zuma is not stupid. Not by a very long shot.

You disagree? Then let me ask you: if Zuma is so stupid, how is it that he still has his job despite those 783 counts of corruption while you’re one sick day away from getting called into HR? If he’s so thick, how has he secured his family’s financial future for generations while you’re living pay cheque to pay cheque? If his Standard 3 education is so laughable, how has he learnt to play the game so masterfully while you with your degree still aren’t sure what you’re doing with your life?

Yes, you say, but accumulating wealth and power have nothing to do with being a good president. You’re right. But I’m not talking about a good president. I’m talking about Jacob Zuma. We have to judge him by the goals he and his enablers have set themselves; and by those standards, he’s a borderline genius.

Even in relatively staid democracies, where dull governments run quiet administrations, national politics is a bait-ball seething with sharks. Merely surviving requires extraordinary cunning, knowledge and lightning reflexes.

To thrive, politicians must have extreme powers of perception, interpretation and prediction; an elephantine memory for faces, names, strengths and weaknesses; the subtlety to play highly skilled operators off against one another; and the desire and ability to take in huge amounts of information and to discard instantly all that doesn’t help them.

And that’s just in Belgium or Denmark. Can you begin to imagine what it takes to become apex predator in these bloody waters down here?

So no. Do not tell me that Jacob Zuma is stupid. A disgrace. A blight we will regret for decades. But not stupid.

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Published in The Times and TimesLive

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Shame on you, Cyril!

surprised cyril

I must admit that I am terribly disappointed in Cyril Ramaphosa.

Just one affair? What kind of presidential contender only has one affair?

In France you can’t even become deputy mayor unless you list at least three dangerous liaisons in your CV. The Italian constitution demands that when a new president is inaugurated, he or she has to take the oath of office while being orally pleasured by at least five lovers. And Ramaphosa has the nerve, the barefaced audacity, to admit that he’s only had one paltry dalliance?

No, Mr Ramaphosa. This will not stand. You have betrayed the very institution of patriarchal politics and you have lost the respect of the millions of hypocrites in this country.

Still, at least the disappointing revelations of the weekend were illuminating in other ways. For starters, there was more confirmation (if any more was needed) of just how inept the Zupta camp can be when it comes to Machiavellian schemes.

A sex scandal? Seriously? All the dirty tricks at their disposal and they opt for a sex scandal? Their own godfather brushed off an extramarital one-night stand and a rape trial. The political consequences of Jeff Radebe’s sexting shenanigans have been the distant chirping of a lone cricket. And yet somehow they convinced themselves that South Africa would rise up in puritanical fury against Ramaphosa.

It seems delusional, but I think there is method to this madness; a method written down and learned by heart, 50 years ago, in the Soviet Union or Bulgaria. It was even a good method: back then, kompromat – salacious information used for blackmail – could remove opponents and topple governments.

But what the Zupta brains trust doesn’t seem to understand is that it is 2017, not 1967. The sex scandal has been defused and rendered almost entirely useless as a weapon. And that’s because its animating, destructive energy – shame – has been evaporated by modernity.

“Hey Jacob you little hottie. Send nudes. Also nuclear contracts.”

The world in which powerful people offer tearful apologies and resignations is gone, replaced by one in which a man can boast that he “moved” on a married woman “like a bitch”; can urge men to “grab ’em by the pussy”; and still become president of the US. It is a world in which a politician can joke that an alleged rape victim “enjoyed” her ordeal because she stayed for breakfast, and go on to become hailed as a progressive president-in-waiting.

None of that, however, penetrated the bubble of the Zuptas or their puppets in the press; and so they trotted out their kompromat and told us that Ramaphosa is a “blesser”, a hilarious accusation given that this country is hostage to the biggest blesser-blessee relationship of them all. (“Hey Jacob you little hottie. Send nudes. Also nuclear contracts.”) Sigh.

The second thing the B-grade smear illuminated was our collective desperation for something better.

We’re fond of false dichotomies in this country but within hours of the non-story being published by non-journalists, Ramaphosa’s supporters were outdoing themselves. If Zuma was Voldemort, Ramaphosa was Harry Potter, the magical chosen one, a reluctant messiah who would save us all.

“This is the kind of leadership we need!” tweeted “rebel” MP Derek Hanekom, a post retweeted almost 100 times by fellow Ramaphosists.

I enjoyed his enthusiasm but I wondered what kind of leadership, exactly, Hanekom was referring to. Was it Ramaphosa’s impression of a smiling statue, holding perfectly still as the ANC was hollowed out? Was it his refusal to take a meaningful stand against wholesale looting until he was ready to launch his own bid for power?

Obviously, it couldn’t be either. Which makes me think that Hanekom wasn’t actually talking about leadership. Instead, he and those who think like him are actually talking about Elastoplast. Because right now the country has only two presidential candidates. The first is a rusty spike being hammered deeper into a sucking chest wound. And the other is an Elastoplast.

I don’t think anybody seriously believes that an Elastoplast can fix a country. It is, after all, a sticking plaster, not a statesman. It might not even close the hole. But at least it’s not making the hole bigger. And right now, that feels like progress.

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Published in The Times and TimesLive

Scandal? Send in the Clown!

clown

We are led.

Fourteen years ago, as Robert Mugabe was doing to Zimbabwe what his wife allegedly does to South African models and waitresses, a press conference was called in Pretoria.

At issue was South Africa’s policy of “silent diplomacy”, a plan dreamed up by Thabo Mbeki to enable Mugabe to steal two elections and effectively end democracy in Zimbabwe.

According to Mbeki and his palace footstools, the policy was well on track: Mugabe would almost definitely cede power within a few years of his death, and then Zimbabwe could look forward to electing either Grace Mugabe or Grace Mugabe. As for the million Zimbabweans heading south, well, they were simply patriots eager to tell South Africans face to face how much they adored King Robert.

The world’s journalists, however, wanted clarity; and so, in March of 2003, they asked South Africa’s foreign minister for the country’s official stance on the deliberate destruction of Zimbabwe.

The reply was succinct.

“The problem with you,” the minister said, “is that you are waiting for one word – condemnation of Zimbabwe. You will never hear that. It is not going to happen as long as this government is in power.”

The minister’s inability to count words aside, this reply is notable for two reasons.

The first is that the minister who delivered this extraordinary defence of fascist kragdadigheid and who, by implication, is in favour of murder squads, the stealing of elections and unlimited terms for despots, was Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma. You know, the one who wants to be president in 2019.

The second thing I find memorable about Dlamini-Zuma’s statement is its honesty.

We sometimes accuse the government of hiding its malignant intentions behind gobbledygook, but that’s not true. For almost 20 years the ANC has been telling us that it will always side with violent power rather than democracy and justice.

“Silent diplomacy” sounded like a euphemism. It wasn’t. Mbeki explicitly told us that nobody was going to say anything to anyone. Dlamini-Zuma wasn’t fudging either: she told us that the Mugabes have a blank cheque, forever. So let’s not pretend that anybody was ever going to arrest Grace.

very good at diversions and distractions

Still, I understand why some people might cling to the belief that the current ANC is a benevolent uncle who has merely had a few oopsies. The party is very good at diversions and distractions. And they don’t get more diverting or distracting than Fikile Mbalula.

Last week, as Pretoria was planning Grace Mugabe’s departure, Mbalula declared that police were on “red alert” at South Africa’s borders. It sounded like a fantastically stupid thing to say given the existence of heavier-than-air flying machines, suggesting that, in Mbalula’s dream-world, international fugitives drive up to border posts, roll down their windows and present their documents.

But I would argue that Mbalula wasn’t being moronic. On the contrary, he was doing exactly what was required of him.

Mbalula does his job better than any other minister. That’s because his job is to be a clown. Literally. Whenever things get dark, there is a sudden drum roll, a spotlight, and there he is in his comically ill-fitting suit: pouting and puffing, pulling funny faces and shouting catchphrases or bits of popular slang. His fans roar with laughter and slap their thighs. That Mbaks, they say; that guy is a good guy.

When Mbalula was appointed police minister, critics of the government expressed familiar exasperation. Why, they asked, does the ANC keep appointing lightweights to vastly important and difficult portfolios?

They missed the point. Appointing Mbalula as a minister isn’t about his ability in a particular ministry. Rather, it is to give him a job, any job, high up in government, so that he can wheel out his routine at press conferences and on Twitter when the party needs a distraction.

There was no red alert at the borders because Grace Mugabe was 30,000 feet above those borders. Instead, there was a clown honking his nose, reassuring the people that he, too, loves Beyonce and blood sports and shooting baddies. Because when you’re laughing at a clown, it’s hard to believe that the circus owners would feed you to the lions in a heartbeat.

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Published in The Times and TimesLive

Pretending that puppets are presidents

Atul sockpuppet

“Say something to the people, Jacob.”

I don’t know how our political journalists do it.

Day after day they report to this committee room or that media centre and listen to the well-dressed guy behind the table, calling him “Minister” as if he’s an actual minister and not just a Gupta sock puppet; writing down his words as if they’re important and not just a script written in Dubai and spell-checked in the London offices of BellPottinger; writing careful and intelligent analyses of how this sock puppet’s imaginary policy will affect the imaginary policies of his fellow sock puppets, and, ultimately, the career prospects of our imaginary president, a low-level employee of Middle Eastern monopoly capital.

I understand why they have to do it. Journalists report on what is presented to them. We don’t have any actual ministers (public officials working in the best interests of the citizens of the country) so it’s the sock puppets who come to the press conferences, which means those are the ones you report on. Also, you can’t have the nation’s newspapers all leading with stories called things like “Moral Bankrupt Who’s Never Had A Real Job Dutifully Enacts New Get-Rich Scheme Of His Foreign Paymasters”.

Still, I’ve reached a curious moment. I just can’t pretend any more. The official titles have been sounding increasingly ropey but now they’ve tipped over into sheer ludicrousness, as if a group of catalogue models is wandering around our public buildings, all doing Blue Steel pouts for the camera as they introduce themselves as “Deputy President” or “Minister” or “Honourable Member of Parliament”.

The absurdity is funny, but it also exposes the danger of our current moment.

The people who control all the money and the guns are coming unhinged in a way I don’t think we’ve ever seen in this country. The Nationalists, clinging to their white supremacist ideology, their terror of Communism and their Calvinist religion, were predictable right to the end. The sock puppets, by contrast, abandoned their ideology years ago and are rushing towards something much more frightening: the final split away from their most basic identities as people. Which means they could do almost anything.

You can see it in every belligerent, aimless press conference: they don’t know what they’re doing but, more important, they no longer know why they’re doing it. They’ve gone too far for too long on too little, and now, stripped of the higher moral ground and all the props of history handed to them in 1994, they stand naked before us, exposed as small, venal creatures caught in a dreadful struggle between trying to save themselves and lingering long enough to gorge on just a little more public money.

We must read the news not as fact but as a psychological profile of a group of desperate hustlers.

This is the lunatic dance we’re watching: they cringe away from responsibility and principle and the vastly damning verdict of posterity; and yet they still strain forward, hands grasping, groping towards the heap of treasure they hope will fill the weeping hole where their conscience and purpose once lived.

If this were simply the decline of a political party hollowed out by corruption and slowly collapsing under the weight of its own bad decisions, I might be less alarmed. But this is not the collapse of a party. It is the unravelling of a cult. And when cult leaders feel the End Times rushing towards them, things can get incredibly ugly.

It is more important than ever to focus on the absurdity of our situation. We must resist our powerful, primitive instincts that try to convince us that all of this nonsense is a reflection of some sort of reality; that State Capture is just a part of politics rather than the moment we all step back and stop participating in this parody of a state.

I respect our political journalists for the work they do as our early-warning system, but printed words and broadcast images give our imaginary politicians a veneer of legitimacy. We must chip away at that veneer every day, seeing these so-called politicians for what they are: hopelessly cornered nobodies, minor lackeys clutching their household gods as they rush between crumbling temples in a falling Rome. We must read the news not as fact but as a psychological profile of a group of desperate hustlers.

If we can keep the absurdity in clear view, then perhaps, come 2019, we can see them off and send them back to where they belong: failing, corrupt businesses; badly lit seminar rooms at increasingly irrelevant colleges; and, in some cases, prison.

For now, though, try to remember: there is no president. There are no ministers. There is no national government. There is no plan. There are only small, limited people, twitched this way and that by their compulsions, cracking under the demands of their appetites. There is only this interregnum of pure absurdity. And then there is 2019 and a chance to escape this lunacy once and for all.

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Published in The Times

Would the Comrades make it past Polly Graph?

Comrades“They’ve jogged past Mangaung! They’ve slogged through Polokwane! They’ve sidestepped Nkandla! And now it’s the final sprint towards the Union Buildings! Bob, incredible drama here in the closing stages of the 2017 Comrades’ Marathon!”

“Steve, absolutely. “What a race it’s been this – ”

“Sorry, Bob, a correction: the Comrades have asked us not to call it a ‘race’. Apparently they prefer to keep that word in their arsenal until just before election time.”

“Well, it’s been a helluva marathon, Steve, and picking a winner is going to be a game of Russian roulette.”

“You mean it’s still wide open?”

“No, I mean the winner is going to be decided in Russia over a roulette table.”

“I think you’re confusing this with the American electoral system. But never mind, these are covfefe times.”

“Nice use of an internet buzzword to make our commentary more hip for the Millennials, Bob.”

“Anything to woo the youth, Steve. Which raises the question: does 75-year-old Zuma have what it takes to go all the way, or will Ramaphosa time his kick just right and surge past at the line?”

“Bob, Zuma has been working with some amazing international coaches. As you know, he’s been part of the Gupta stable for a few years now, and they’ve reportedly done an incredible job training him to respond to basic commands – sit, stay, roll over, appoint this person as deputy minister – but you have to say that he’s going to struggle, especially because he’s carrying Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma on his back.”

“Let’s see if we can get some footage of – oh, there they are, he’s battling on, she’s got her arms and legs round him, she’s urging him on with mumbled policy statements, but Steve, he’s gotta be feeling this right now. I mean, those legs are literally going to be on fire.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears, Bob. Oh, I’m hearing we’ve got to take a quick word from our sponsors.”

Now that you’ve entered your autumn years it’s time to unwind, relax, and avoid prosecution. At Dubai Summer Breeze retirement estates we understand what’s important to you and your lawyers. With a wide range of leisure activities, round-the-clock nursing staff and your own bunker, Summer Breeze is the ideal way to escape the rat race and the angry mobs back home. Dubai Summer Breeze. Because growing old shouldn’t mean dying in prison.

“Welcome back, folks. Some great footage coming in now, that’s, er, oh, OK, that’s Gwede Mantashe, with that distinctive way of running in a circle.”

He has never run this marathon, except for when he has

“Interesting technique, Bob. He’s always made it very clear that he has never run this marathon and will never run it, except for the times when he has run it, and might still run it. He says he’s especially looking forward to the up-run which will give him the opportunity to excel in the down-run, which is his preferred race.”

“Sounds like he’s on tik, Steve. But then most of the Comrades are, am I right?”

“Absolutely, Bob. And speaking of which, I asked a couple of them this morning about why they still call each other ‘Comrade’. I mean, ‘Comrade’ is a term appropriated from the Soviet Union, which we all know ended in total economic collapse and ushered in a new era of authoritarian kleptocracy.”

“What did they say?”

“They said, ‘Yep, sounds about right’.”

“OK, a lovely aerial shot right now of the pack heading up the Long Climb Towards 2019.”

“Bob, always a taxing hill. Although you’re aware of the current controversy around this route, a lot of people demanding that the Comrades get routed up and over Polly Graph.”

“I think we’d all love to see them tackle a Polly Graph type of challenge, Steve, but of course the fear is that nobody would get past a Polly Graph and we’d have to call the whole thing off.”

“The Comrades is tough enough as it stands, Bob. Already some big names dropping out of the running. Baleka Mbete, veering off course, endlessly repeating that she didn’t recognise the route. Brian Molefe, starting strongly, then retiring in tears, then getting dropped off by bakkie at the halfway point and claiming he’d never left.”

“Steve, any chance of an upset from an outsider? Julius Malema is looking fighting fit these days. And how about Mmusi Maimane?”

“Bob, I don’t have high hopes. Julius wants to nationalise the route and lease small chunks of it to each runner to grow potatoes on, and Mmusi, well, that story is just pathetic.”

“Yes, sad scenes at the start line. When Helen Zille got both feet wedged in her mouth we thought Maimane was a shoo-in, but who could have guessed he’d grab the starter pistol and shoot himself in both feet?”

“Bob, this is being broadcast by the SABC, which means we’ve got to cut away from the action for absolutely no reason, but before we go, any final thoughts?”

“Steve, these Comrades are going to lay everything on the line. Remember, the winner gets that beautiful gold medal, plus a blank cheque signed by Treasury. If I was a Gupta right now, I’d be on the edge of the servant I use as a seat, chewing the nails of the servant I pay to chew my nails. This ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”

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Published in The Times

Baby, I can change! I promise!

Say anything

“Say Anything”: ANC policy for 23 years.

Jacob Zuma, the nation’s media announced, had “survived” the meeting with the National Executive Committee, which was rather like announcing that a medieval king had survived his morning blowjob.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that Zuma isn’t taking a lot of flak right now. According to insiders at the NEC meeting, anxiously warming the massage oil between their hands, 45 of the 106 attendees asked Zuma to step down. Hell, that means that only 57% of the ruling party publicly endorses the gutting of the republic for personal gain.

Then there’s the extraordinary claim in the so-called Gupta e-mails (presumably leaked to the Sunday papers by one of those malcontents to coincide with the NEC meeting) that the Zuma clan is trying to relocate to Dubai.

At first glance this looks like some sort of escape plan, a bit like the end of ‘The Sound of Music’ where the Von Trapps skedaddle over the Alps. Indeed, it’s easy to imagine the Zuma Family Singers all lined up on the national stage, warbling a medley of our favourite hits from that film – The Lonely Gupta-turd; How Do You Solve A Problem Like The Free Press?; My Favourite Indians; Sell Every Mountain – before rolling the car silently down the highway to Waterkloof Air Base.

I’m not so sure, however, that a move to Dubai would necessarily be about fleeing. One of the people named in the weekend’s tranche of e-mails was Mzwanele Manyi, who once declared that there was an “oversupply” of coloured people in the Western Cape. If Mr Manyi is in any way connected to the Zumas or the Guptas, it’s possible he noticed a severe shortage of Zulus in Dubai and the whole thing is just another of his social engineering schemes.

So yes, there have been lots of hard words – Daddy even had to get a bit shouty with the NEC, telling them that if they said naughty phrases like “step down” again he would send them to their rooms without any kickbacks – but I don’t think anybody actually believes that Zuma is about to disappear. He may not be Nominal President for much longer (our actual president, is, of course, whichever Gupta feels like handling the South Africa account that day), but it is now accepted dogma that his plan is long-range, long-term control over the country via remote control.

All of which brings us, rather confusingly, to the ANC Stalwarts. You’ve probably read one of their faintly heroic ejaculations about pulling the country back from the brink and how they don’t agree with the direction we’re going.

Who sends the best emojis?

What they mean, of course, is that they are feeling terribly uncomfortable. Fighting for a good spot at the trough is hard enough at the best of times, but imagine trying to position yourself ahead of Zuma’s transformation into a digital, holographic ruler. Whose back are you going to massage now? Or will it boil down to who sends the best emojis?

Drowning people will cling to anything, so it’s not surprising that the Stalwarts are gaining some traction. Already, some folks are convincing themselves that the apparatchiks who put Zuma in power and kept him there are actually ardent democrats just waiting to explode into a rainbow of good governance. “Yes, it looked like she was asleep in parliament but she was actually resting her mind ahead of the great struggle to take back the country from, er, herself.”

Alas, they’re going to sink. I know that not everyone in government is corrupt. Some of them are merely incompetent. Others are paralysed, trapped in a web of conflicts and contradictory promises they’ve made to their backers. But when I consider life after Zuma, I remember the words of Cyril Ramaphosa, our next president.

“The ANC is pained immensely by stories of corruption,” he told the New York Times. “We are highly conscious of the damage that corruption does to a party and a country.”

He said those words in 1996. Twenty-fucking-one years ago. The context? Damage control around Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma’s Sarafina 2 corruption debacle. And you tell me this lot can change?

We don’t know if there is leadership that can do right by the country. Certainly many people are becoming frustrated with the media’s focus on Zuma: why, they ask, do we keep saying what we don’t want rather than outlining what we do?

I understand that question, but right now it’s like marching up to a paramedic who is holding someone’s intestines in, and saying, “Excuse me, but I’m very concerned that you’re not addressing when this person will go back to work.”

When you’re learning how to identify feelings, you start with the not-feelings: what a thing doesn’t feel like. We’re clearly unskilled at electing good governments, so, as we begin to grope our way towards a better alternative, I think it’s OK to focus on what we don’t want; to say that we don’t want this, or the people who allowed this to happen.

The next step? Education. Better safeguards. Perhaps a paragraph added to the constitution explicitly stating that the country probably shouldn’t be run via e-mail from abroad.

We’ll slowly clarify what we want. But it’s not this.

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Published in The Times

The sext lives of politicians

Justice Minister Jeff Radebe

“…and about this long.”

Yesterday I read something that truly shocked me.

According to the Sunday Times, Jeff Radebe, Minister in the Presidency, had allegedly sent texts and e-mails of a sexual nature to a young government photographer, asking her to send him nude pictures of herself.

Wait, I haven’t got to the shocking part yet.

The photographer was reportedly suspended because of “improper behaviour” (we all know how hard this government comes down on improper behaviour) and, bizarrely, because of the sorts of clothes she wore in the presence of politicians.

That wasn’t the shocking bit either. No, what stunned me was the reaction to the story. Because there, in black and white, I read experts suggesting that the sext scandal had scuppered whatever chance Radebe had of becoming president.

I’m not sure which country those experts have lived in for the last decade, but in my country we have a president who was tried for rape and came through it absolutely unscathed. His loudest supporter at the time suggested that his accuser had had a good time. It was a vile and vastly destructive thing to say, but that statement did not stop Julius Malema from becoming the leader of a large party and it won’t stop him becoming president at some point.

Of course I’m not suggesting that Radebe hasn’t got problems. No doubt he lies awake every night, tossing and turning on that huge pile of money that senior ANC people use instead of mattresses, fretting about the coming months.

For starters, he’s got to time his leap off the sinking SS Zupta just right. Then there’s the wording of his inevitable not-quite-apology. This, at least, is less stressful because he can just plagiarise someone else’s: these days there’s a new one almost every week, delivered by one of the coterie of arse-kissers who put Zuma in power and kept him there, becoming gigantically wealthy as they helped him sell the country to the highest bidder.

The rhetoric is pious, full of resolutions to do better, but every single one of them is saying that same thing: “Baby? Babe? Please pick up. I was going through some stuff back at Polokwane…and…Also it’s not really my fault, you know? I mean, you don’t know what he’s like! He’s…well..I just want to let you know I’ve changed and I promise this time it’ll be different. For realsies.”

Yes, Jeff Radebe has plenty to vex him, but if anyone in Zuma’s South Africa still believes that explicit sexts are enough to hurt an embedded politician, they really haven’t been paying attention.

The story has been sold as faintly salacious but one should be cautious of seeing the sexual exploits of powerful people as some sort of entertainment, given their potential for exploitation, a wildly skewed power balance, and, frankly, abuse.

What do they write?

Still, it did make me wonder about the secret, digital sex lives of our senior politicians. Assuming that some of them have secret affairs with relative equals, what exactly do they write in those sweaty-palmed exchanges?

After all, desire is a fairly honest emotion but how do you express it when you’ve been trained since Comradegarten to speak in euphemisms? Are you able to suggest a lunchtime quickie in a nearby hotel or does everything sound like a policy statement? “Our position is that we are generally in favour of a potentiality in which we boost job creation in both the hospitality and prophylactic industries.”

Certainly, I would imagine that it’s important to take into account someone’s political ideology before embarking on a secret sext affair. For example, if an EFF member asks you for a picture that will make the earth move, he is almost definitely asking for a photo of a tractor-manufacturing plant in the former Soviet Union.

Likewise, if you’re going to get steamy with a senior DA type, you should probably abandon some of your more traditional romantic preconceptions. “Send me a picture of you…No, that one’s got a poor person in the background. Please put it on a bus to Wolwerivier and then take the pic again. OK. Good. Hot. Now show me the benefits of colonialism! Yes! Put on a pair of jodhpurs and straddle a railway line. Oh god yes, you really float my gunboat.”

But whatever you do, and whomever you do it with, do not have an online affair with someone high up in the ANC. Because we all know how that ends.

He’ll tell you he looks like Idris Elba. You’ll ask for a picture. He’ll send you a picture of Idris Elba. You’ll say, “Wait, this is Idris Elba”, and he’ll say you’re a racist who works for the CIA. You’ll say, “It’s over, I’m mailing a picture of a tractor-manufacturing plant to the Commander-In-Chief,” and he’ll beg you to stay. He can change. He was wrong. He’ll do anything. Except, you know, actual governance.

Yes, we’ve all been there. Many still are. And it’s time for that sordid little affair to come to an end.

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Published in The Times